


Mistletoe and Misdemeanours

by Robottko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Coffee Shops, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, First Kiss, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robottko/pseuds/Robottko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Victor Trevor backs out of the Holmes family Christmas at the last minute, Sherlock panics because he has no way to impress his parents. Thankfully there is a handsome army doctor with nowhere to go in his coffee shop, though it would be more helpful if he were a bit more willing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have an absolute weakness for cheesy Christmas movies. It does not matter how bad the acting is, if the plot is ridiculous, or if the director has no idea what they're doing, I will watch it. Some call it a character flaw, I call it not being a total grinch.  
> My absolute favorite Christmas movie is called Holiday in Handcuffs, and I cannot go a year without watching it. Last year, I decided that I was going to write a Johnlock version, and here we finally are. So I hope you enjoy this fic, as it's been a year in the making.  
> As always, I don't have a beta, as I am not cruel enough to subject anyone to my terrible writing patterns (aka realize it's been a while since my last update, better write a chapter in one night!!!) so if you see any mistakes, let me know, and I will fix them!

**December 23 rd. 221B Baker Street, London. 07:00.**

The shrill ring of a mobile phone filled the lounge, rousing Sherlock Holmes from his unconscious state. He hadn’t been sleeping, not fully, but rather resting, allowing his mind to relax without becoming befuddled by sleep. His mobile, however, was doing a fine job of destroying his concentration anyway. Sherlock rolled over, his hand scrabbling for the phone, not bothering to check to see who was calling before answering with one of his usual perfunctory greetings.

“Sherlock Holmes. Don’t be boring.” He snapped.

“Is that any way to speak to your mother, Sherlock?” The feminine voice of Violet Holmes asked, causing any lingering tendrils of unconsciousness to promptly vanish.

“Mummy!” Sherlock said hurriedly, jumping off the sofa as if his mother could witness him lazing about. “I apologise. I thought you were a potential client.”

“That is no way to talk to a client.” Mummy admonished. “It’s no wonder you’re lacking them. Clients, that is. No one wants to go to a detective that is so rude.”

“Sorry, Mummy.” Sherlock said in an appeasing manner, but Mummy was having none of it.

“Really, Sherlock. I thought you would be over this whole _consulting detective_ nonsense by now. Surely a job with your brother would be far more beneficial…”

“Mummy, I don’t want to work for the government.” Sherlock replied petulantly. “I want to solve mysteries, puzzles, crimes!”

“You’re going to have to grow out of this phase sometime, dear.” Mummy tutted. “You’re twenty six years old!”

He sighed softly, not really wanting to begin their repetitive fight so early in the morning. Really, if he could go one day without arguing about his job, his romantic life and his future, it couldn’t come too soon.

“Anyway, I was calling to confirm the seating order.” Mummy continued. “Victor is still coming to our winter estate for Christmas, correct?”

“Yes, Mummy.” Sherlock replied, pulling on a pair of black trousers and a white button up. While it may be the uniform for Higbies, the coffee shop that Sherlock was employed at, it would also serve as an acceptable outfit for the insufferable interview his father was forcing him to go on.

“Oh, good.” Mummy chirped cheerfully. “Hopefully you’ll make it work with this boy. You aren’t getting any younger!”

“Mummy!” Sherlock protested, but it was clear from the rumble of his father’s voice in the background that Violet was no longer listening to her son. The pair prattled on for about a minute, arguing quietly before Sherlock heard a rustle indicating a passed phone.

“Sherlock!” Siger greeted.

“Hello, Father.” Sherlock responded, and, realising that he was pacing, promptly sat down in the worn leather chair near the fireplace. “What can I do for you?”

“I was just checking in to make sure that you were still planning to go to your interview down at the Bank of London.”

“Of course, Father.” Sherlock replied dully, his distaste for the interview showing through his voice.

“Don’t be like that, Sherlock.” Father said. “Sebastian Wilkes Sr. is our neighbour, and it would be in poor taste to miss such an important interview. If you get the job, you would be working with your old friend, Sebastian Wilkes Jr.”

“Sebastian was not my friend.” Sherlock reminded his father. “He broke my arm for telling him that his mother was cheating on his father with the mail man.”

Father sighed, and Sherlock gritted his teeth against the sound of pure disappointment. He assumed he would have been used to the sound by now, but it still put him on edge.

“I promise I will go to the interview.” Sherlock droned.

“This is your chance to put all that detective nonsense behind you.” Father responded, sound far more cheerful than he had a minute previous. “A fresh new start. Make us proud, son.”

“I will, Father.” Sherlock said before hearing the phone being passed once again to his mother.

“We can’t wait to meet Victor.” Mummy said quickly, her voice cheerful. “I’m sure he’s even lovelier than you claim.”

“You’ll love him.” Sherlock promised. “I’ve got to be on my way. See you soon!”

“Remember, be here by six!” Mummy said quickly, and Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment before hanging up his phone, shooting the skull on his mantelpiece a weary look.

“You’re the only one who isn’t a complete idiot, Billy.” He said, pushing himself out of his leather chair and walking towards the door. “At least Victor will fit in with them.”

 

**December 23 rd. Tottenham Court Road, London. 08:15.**

 

Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he promised his father that he would be attending the interview. He had had every intention of attending the infernal meeting, and had not the most intriguing distraction made itself known, Sherlock would have made good on his promise.

As it was, the most exciting of crimes happened to be between Sherlock’s flat, and the bank that was his intended destination. He had been walking along when a barrier of yellow police tape blocked his path. And really, could he be blamed for stopping to point out what the cops had gotten wrong?

Sherlock stopped to take in the scene in front of him, eyes sweeping along the pavement, taking in the dark blood on the concrete. There was a flower pot that was shattered nearby, somewhere around where the victims head would have been, and a lone shoe nearby. A movement out of the corner of Sherlock’s eye caught his attention, and he looked up to see a harried looking detective inspector running a hand through his silver-grey hair. Just one glance at his face and Sherlock could tell he had come to the wrong conclusion about the murder.

“Wrong.” Sherlock called out, smirking as the DI jumped. Their eyes met, and he got a brief glance of annoyance and shock before professionalism took over on the other man’s face.

“This is a crime scene.” The DI said, striding over to Sherlock. “The public isn’t allowed here.”

“While that’s true, you’ve completely misinterpreted the scene.” Sherlock replied quickly. “It was not an accident of a falling pot that killed your victim, but rather the swing of a blunt object, such as a baseball bat. Clearly a murder.”

The DI stared at him for a few seconds, obviously trying to comprehend what he had said. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and Sherlock watched fascinated as he tried to gather his words. “Excuse me? Are you on drugs?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “At least, not anymore. I don’t understand why you’re not getting to work, you’ve got a murder to solve.”

“A murder?” The DI scoffed. “What makes you think it was a murder?”

“I don’t think, I know.” Sherlock sighed slightly, “The flower pot broke on a hard, flat surface, not a rounded one. The pattern of the cracks also suggest that it was dropped so that it was perpendicular to the ground. If the vase had fallen naturally, it would have landed at a much different angle, and the crack pattern would be completely different. Suggesting by blood on the sidewalk, the victim’s head was struck by a faster force than a randomly falling flower pot. ”

The DI looked completely befuddled, not that Sherlock was very surprised. Most people looked this way whenever he was talking. Victor had always walked off at this point, claiming he needed to get away from all the ‘ridiculous talk’.

“That was….really weird, to be honest.” The DI said, shaking his head. “And I’m not entirely convinced that you’re sober. What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.” Sherlock said, confused at the flurry of emotions that flew across the DI’s face at the mention of his name. For one brief second he debated on asking why his name caught the DI’s attention, but then quickly threw that idea out the window. He needed _something_ interesting to ponder while stuck at his horrendous family Christmas.

“Right. Well it was nice meeting you Mr Holmes, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises now.” The DI said.

“Fair enough.” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “Though I trust you’ll take my words to heart, Detective Inspector?”

“I will, yes.” The DI replied. “Now go, before you cost me my job.”

“Good to know you’re not as idiotic as the rest of the force.” Sherlock commented dryly, turning away from the yellow police tape that blocked his path.

“Lestrade.” The DI said, causing Sherlock to frown at the non-sequitur. He turned to look at the silver haired DI once more.

“Pardon me?”

“My name. I’m Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” The DI repeated.

“Perhaps I’ll assist you more often, Lestrade.” Sherlock responded, raising an eyebrow to hide how pleased he was. “Make a proper detective out of you yet.”

With that parting comment, Sherlock was off once more, his Belstaff swirling dramatically behind him.

 

**December 23. Higbies Coffee Shop, London. 09:30.**

 

Sherlock never did make it to the interview, and while a large portion of the blame fell to the fact that he stopped by the crime scene, the blame rested in the fact that he didn’t really want to go. Oh, he had promised Father that he would attend, but he hadn’t wanted to, so when he looked at his phone and discovered that he was already fifteen minutes late for the interview, it wasn’t with a heavy heart that he turned to go to work instead.

Naturally, the small coffee shop was completely packed, and Sherlock didn’t have any time to brood about the mood his father would be in when he discovered that he had missed the interview. He had just stepped behind the counter, tying his apron on as he went, when his co-worker Molly bounced up to him, cheeks flushed from all the running around she had been doing.

“Thank god you’re here!” She chirped, setting a small latte on the counter and calling out the recipient’s name. “I was worried that you had decided to leave for your parents place early.”

“I’m going to their winter estate in Yorkshire.” Sherlock said, not for the first time. “Not their home. And I wouldn’t leave early. For one thing, Victor isn’t done with work. And I don’t want to spend a second longer than I have to with my family.”

“Ugh.” Molly wrinkled her nose, grabbing the metal cup they used to steam milk, pouring skim milk into it. “You’re bringing _Victor_ to meet your parents? He’s horrid!”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, pouring coffee beans into the espresso machine. “He’ll fit right in with them. Big businessman such as himself? Mycroft will love him, and don’t even mention my parents.”

“What sort of business is he in again?” Molly asked, placing the milk under the steaming wand and starting it up.

“Oh, I don’t remember.” Sherlock replied easily. “Something dreadfully boring. Does it matter?”

Molly giggled in response, and Sherlock turned to look at the customers, deducing what sort of coffee they were going to get. It always helped to be prepared.

(Short brunette woman will have a cinnamon latte, redheaded male will take a mocha with extra whip, blond man in the frumpy jumper will have a coffee black with no sugar, and Victor will take…Victor??)

Sherlock froze as he watched his boyfriend walk towards him, his bespoke suit making him stand out uncomfortable among the rest of the coffee shop patrons. Victor was taller than Sherlock, maybe about six foot two, and thick brown hair that most people were jealous of. A bright, false smile showed off his straight teeth, and Sherlock knew that whatever Victor had to say wasn’t going to be good.

“Sherly!” Victor chirped, ignoring the full-bodied wince that always accompanied his horrible nickname. “Listen, I have some bad news. I can’t make it to your parents’ estate this Christmas.”

“What do you mean you can’t make it?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the agitated customer who was trying to snatch the coffee cup that he was clutching tightly in his hands. “You promised you would come!”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Victor didn’t bother to sound sorry at all. “But I only told you that so we would have sex. I don’t _actually_ want to meet your parents.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Sherlock choked, setting down the coffee cup at long last, the customer who it belonged to grabbing it and grumbling about poor service. “Are you…are you breaking up with me?”

“Well, yes.” Victor said, his grin becoming more amused. “Though I didn’t want to be the one to say it. Thanks, love.”

“I am not your _love._ ” Sherlock growled softly. “You can kindly piss off.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Victor replied, giving a small wave as he turned. “Nice having this chat with you.”

Sherlock watched as Victor left, the door tinkling as he made his escape into the London streets.  Sherlock could do little else but gape after him, a nudge from Molly bringing him back to his senses.

“Jeez, what a wanker.” Molly said, “You’re better off without him.”

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock shook his head, not even foul language from Molly unable to break through his shock. “He was my ticket to a decent Christmas. My parents were finally proud of me for something and-fuck!”

“Um…excuse me?” A soft voice interrupted, causing both Sherlock and Molly to jump. The blond man with the frumpy jumper stood there, looking vaguely amused, and Sherlock noted distantly that he was much handsomer than he had originally thought. “I was wondering if I could order my coffee.”

“Black, no sugar.” Sherlock said absently, his phone that had begun to vibrate pulling him from the haze of the break up.

“Yeah…how did you…?” The blond asked in surprise, but Sherlock paid him no mind as he answered the call from his mother, turning away from the blond and Molly.

“Haven’t you left yet?” Violet asked, annoyance clear in her voice. Nearby, Sherlock could hear Molly explaining his little talent to the customer. “Oh, that’s just something he does. It’s pretty neat, actually…oh shoot, we’re out of regular coffee beans…”

“Actually,” Sherlock told his mother, a small smile on his face. “We were just leaving now. I’ll talk to you later!”

He hung up quickly, whirling back to the pair, a bright smile on his face. “Out of regular coffee? What a shame! How about the customer and I go and grab some out of the back?”

“Oh, I suppose that would be alright.” Molly said absently, and Sherlock darted out from behind the counter, steering the customer towards the back door.

“Uh, where are we going?” The blond asked as they passed the store room. Sherlock could practically feel the confusion as he opened the backdoor and pushed him out. “What are you doing?”

“You’re coming with me.” Sherlock told him. “I’m in need of a boyfriend for Christmas, and you’re the perfect contender.”

“Wait…” The blond turned to look at Sherlock, anger and confusion on his face. “You’re attempting to _kidnap_ me?!”

“Oh no.” Sherlock said softly. “I _am_ kidnapping you. It’s time to meet the family.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are these?” The blond asked in horror.  
> “Handcuffs.” Sherlock pointed out, giving him his best ‘you’re an idiot’ look. “This operation just got a bit more professional.”  
> “With fuzzy pink handcuffs?”

**December 23 rd. Higbies Coffee Shop, London. 10:15.**

Sherlock could see that an attack was coming, and he steeled himself to take a punch, but it never came. Instead, he watched as the blond pulled back to punch him, the ice under his feet making it impossible to stay upright, and he crashed to the ground with a nasty sounding crack.

“Oh god.” Sherlock gasped, rushing over to the unconscious blond, expecting to see blood on the ice and concrete. Thankfully there would be no lasting damage. He’d have a nasty headache when he wakes up, but that’s about it.

With a grunt, Sherlock picked up the smaller man’s body, carrying him slowly to Molly’s car, which she so graciously gave him permission to use for the trip to Yorkshire. Thankfully, Molly had parked close to the back door, so it didn’t take long for Sherlock to get him in the vehicle. He used his blue scarf to tie the blond to the car, looping it through the open window before rolling the window all the way up, locking him in place. Satisfied with his handiwork, he made his way around the car, getting in and starting up the engine and taking off down the road.

It’s about a half hour later when Sherlock heard the blond groan, watching his shifting go from confused to panicked when he discovered that he is tied up.

“What is going on?” He demanded, trying to untie the scarf, but to no avail.

“Well, you fell down, and were knocked unconscious. I brought you to Molly’s car, and now we’re heading to Yorkshire to meet my family.” Sherlock explained.

“No.” The blond said stiffly. “You’re insane.”

“You don’t really have a choice.” Sherlock sighed softly, looking at the blue scarf pointedly. “You see, I need a boyfriend for the weekend to impress mummy.”

“Why couldn’t you get your own?!” The blond asked, clearly seething.

“Victor dumped me.”

“You kidnapped me because your boyfriend dumped you?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Sherlock said. “I need you to pretend to be Victor for Christmas. It’ll hardly be a difficult endeavour for you to spend Christmas with me as it is. An ex-army doctor that can barely afford to live in London must not have much family around.”

“I…hang on. How did you know that I was in the army?” The blond looked startled. “Have you been _stalking_ me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Anyone who wasn’t blind could observe the signs. Your hair is cropped short, in an overgrown military style haircut. You have a tan, but it doesn’t extend above your wrists. You had a cane with you at the coffee shop, but when you walked up to the counter, you had forgotten it behind. Not on purpose, of course. When you walk, you have a slight limp, so you have a psychosomatic limp. The way you’re holding your shoulder indicates a fairly recent injury to it. Not recent enough that it would still be bleeding, but recently scarred over. So, by simple deduction, you are a soldier recently invalided from Afghanistan.”

The car was silent for a few seconds, the only sound was the road beneath the tires. There was a soft cough before the blond spoke once again.

“How did you know about the doctor part?” He asked, his voice sounding almost strained.

“Simple.” Sherlock replied. “When you were prepared to attack me, your eyes quickly found all the sensitive points that are most commonly used to disarm an attacker. That could be indicative of your soldier side, but I noticed how you decided on going for my inner elbow. A move that would definitely hurt, but not cause lasting damage. You have high morals, and you only wound in desperate times.”

“That was…” The blond appeared to be thinking of a word, and before Sherlock could suggest the more commonly used ‘freak’ or ‘psychopath’, he finished his thought. “Amazing.”

“What?” Sherlock turned to the blond in shock, wondering if he misheard him.

“That was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You observed all that about me?” There was a small, surprised smile on the blonde’s face.

“Of course.” Sherlock gave a small, hesitant smile in return. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” The blond asked.

“Piss off.”

The blond snorted, and he resumed looking out the window, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. This soldier was…pleasant to be around. Far less annoying than Victor had ever been, and less annoyed with his deductions as well. Sherlock was fairly pleased with how things seemed to be turning out. If he and the blond could become…well, not friends, but perhaps form a mutual approval of each other, then this weekend wouldn’t be completely awful. Of course, it was that moment when he had decided to make a proper introduction that the petrol light needed to come on, the bright chime dragging him from his mind palace.

“Yes, fine. Now shut up.” Sherlock growled at the dashboard, looking around for a petrol station. It wasn’t until the chime went off three more times that they came upon a rundown station with only two pumps. Sherlock wasn’t even sure that it was in business until he saw a dingy neon ‘open’ sign.

“We’re stopping here for petrol?” The blond asked warily. “It looks like the set of a horror movie.”

“So dramatic.” Sherlock murmured.

“Says the man who kidnapped me.” The blond retorted, causing Sherlock to snort. He pulled in next to the pump, hopping out of the car and placing the nozzle into the tank. He peeked through the windows several times to make sure the blond was still tied up, pleased to see that the blue scarf was keeping him secure.

When the nozzle popped, indicating that the tank was full, Sherlock let out a little hum, replacing the nozzle and petrol cap before grabbing his wallet.

“I will be right back.”

“I’ll be…right here.” The blond gestured, looking at his wrists pointedly. Sherlock spared him a small grin before heading inside the station.

The inside of the station was no better than the outside; items were piled pell-mell on the shelves, windows were slightly grime covered, and everything had a fine layer of dust.

“Good afternoon.” A silky female voice said from behind him, and Sherlock turned around in surprise. There, just behind the counter, stood a brunet girl around the age of twenty four. Her lips were painted a vibrant red, and her hair was coiled in a perfect bun. “Can I help you with anything today?”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled at her, quickly reading her nametag. _Irene._ “I filled my car, and I’ve come in to pay for it.”

“Alright, I’ll ring you up.” Irene grinned back, peaking out at the car. “That’s a pretty beat up old car for someone as cute as you.”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock panicked slightly, worried that she could see the blond in his car. “It gets me from place to place.”

“Handy things.” Irene laughed. “Though I have to…do you have a _man_ tied up in there?” She looked surprised, glancing back at Sherlock with wide eyes.

“What?” Sherlock spluttered slightly, his eyes flicking back to the car. “I…no, it’s not-”

“With a _scarf?!_ ” Irene sounded disgusted now, and she ducked behind the counter. “That’s just _wrong.”_

“No, please…” Sherlock debated on running, but Irene popped up, an unreadable look on her face.

“Lucky bastard.” She muttered, and she quickly slapped something very fluffy and _very_ pink on the counter. “Getting a romantic weekend with the likes of you. You’ll need these, of course. Much more official.”

Sherlock stared down at the fluffy pink handcuffs in shock before he began to laugh, covering his face with his hands.

“I’ve been looking for some of these everywhere! Our romantic getaway was this weekend, and I was unable to find a single pair. I had to improvise.” He lied easily. “Thank you so much!”

“My pleasure.” Irene replied. “I was going to ask if you wanted me to use them on you, but it looks like the old saying is correct: all the cute ones are gay.”

“That is an offensive generalization-” Sherlock began, laughter still caught in his throat, but he was cut off by Irene with a wave.

“I only say it because I’m gay too.” Irene replied with a wink, and Sherlock snorted, handing her his credit card. She swiped it without a word, pushing the handcuffs into his arms along with his card.

“They’re on the house.” She said when she handed Sherlock the receipt. “Now, go surprise your man.”

“I will.” Sherlock said. “Thank you so very much.”

He pocketed his card and receipt, keeping hold of the fuzzy handcuffs as he exited the rundown petrol station. The whole situation had been far too close for comfort, and it was taking every ounce of Sherlock’s self-control not to bolt to the car.

He walked calmly to the passenger side of the car, sighing when he saw the blond trying to untie the scarf with his teeth, to no avail.

“That won’t work.” Sherlock said as soon as he opened the door, watching the blond jolt. He snapped on both cuffs before untying the scarf expertly. “But a good escape attempt anyway.”

“What are these?” The blond asked in horror.

“Handcuffs.” Sherlock pointed out, giving him his best ‘you’re an idiot’ look. “This operation just got a bit more professional.”

“With fuzzy pink handcuffs?” The blond raised an eyebrow. Sherlock ignored him, starting up the car and pulling out of the petrol station.

 

**December 23 rd. Somewhere near Leicester. 11:45.**

 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said after a few minutes of silence. “It would be beneficial to know each other if you’re going to pretend to be Victor.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” The blond replied, the fluffy pink handcuffs clinking softly in his lap. “I’m not going to pretend to be your boyfriend. I’m going to tell your family immediately what you’ve done, then get the hell out of there.”

“You haven’t got any way to get a ride back to London.” Sherlock replied. “My family’s estate in Yorkshire is too far from any village to consider walking. You left your phone in the coffee shop, and every year my family hides their phones and car keys to allow for special ‘family time’.” His nose scrunched up at that, letting the blond know just how he felt about family time.

“John.” The blond grumbled after a minute, “My name is John Watson.”

“It’s nice to finally get a name to put with your face.” Sherlock said.

John let out a snort, as if he disagreed with Sherlock.

“Listen.” Sherlock said, hoping to interrupt any angry thoughts. “I understand if you’re angry, but it’s only for Christmas. Then you’ll be free to go home, and I’ll never bother you again.”

“Is it already past Christmas yet?” John asked, mockingly hopeful.

“You’ll share that sentiment with my family.” Sherlock promised. “The wishing to be rid of me, that is. Don’t worry about not fitting in with them.”

Sherlock could see John glance over at him from the corner of his eye, but he refused to expand on his thought. He chose instead to change the topic, focusing on his career rather than his family life.

“I’m a consulting detective.” Sherlock told John. “I believe it is customary for the boyfriend to know the ins and outs of their significant other’s life. Since I can read yours just by looking at you, you don’t have to worry about informing me of your career.”

“Not your boyfriend.” John mumbled under his breath. He was silent for a second, and then: “What’s a consulting detective? I’ve never heard of it before.”

“That’s because I created the job.” Sherlock told him. “Only one in the world. I’m hoping to be able to work with the police soon. Naturally, they refuse to take me seriously because of my age.”

“Your age?” Sherlock could hear the frown in John’s voice. “Aren’t you nearing thirty?”

“I’m twenty six. Admittedly, I am not young. However, there are officers that are nearing their fifties, and are terribly offended when I prove that I am far more intelligent than they could ever hope to be.” Sherlock replied primly. “As for you, I would guess anywhere between twenty eight and thirty.”

“Twenty nine.” John said with grudging admiration. “How did you guess that one?”

“You believed me to be nearing thirty.” Sherlock said. “It was easy enough to deduce that you yourself were nearing thirty. You talk to me as one would a peer, and not as one would speak to someone older or younger than them.”

“I’m not talking to you like you’re my peer.” John argued. “I’m talking to you like someone that’s _literally_ kidnapped me.”

“I’ll give you back, I promise.” Sherlock said. “Just a weekend of pretending to be Victor. He is a business owner, which I’m sure you could pull off.”

“What sort of business?” John asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Something boring.” Sherlock waved off the question with a flick of his wrist. “I couldn’t be bothered to learn.”

“Such an attentive boyfriend.” John quipped, and Sherlock spared him a quick glare before refocusing on the road in front of him.

 

**December 23 rd. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 14:30.**

The rest of the drive had been fairly uneventful, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock was pulling up to his family’s winter estate. He unlocked one of John’s pink cuffs, quickly locking it onto the steering wheel of the car before he had time to react.

“Hey!” John cried, yanking at the fuzzy handcuffs in annoyance. “What the hell is this for?”

“I’ll be right back.” Sherlock replied, opening his car door, the keys clanking in his hand. “I just have to relinquish my phone and keys, and I will promptly release you.”

The car door silenced John’s complaints, and Sherlock moved quickly towards the large manor, snow crunching under his black dress shoes.  The door to the estate was unlocked, and Sherlock slipped inside, looking around for his family.

“Mummy? Father? I’m here.” Sherlock called, walking into the grand sitting room, a huge Christmas tree covered in fairy light sat in the corner, gleaming brightly even in well-lit room.

“Sherlock!” Violet Holmes voice floated towards him, and he turned to his mother, a small smile on his face. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! You’re late, you know. Where’s Victor?”

“He’ll be in soon.” Sherlock said, allowing Mummy to wrap her arms around him, pulling him into an uncomfortably tight hug.

“Sherlock…You didn’t make it to your interview.” The disappointed voice of his father caught his attention, and he looked up to see Siger standing behind mummy.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock responded meekly. “There was a crime scene, and I-”

“Oh, crime scenes!” Mummy sighed, letting him go so she could look up at him. “You need to grow up and get a _real_ job, Sherlock!”

“Solving crimes _is_ a real job.” Sherlock insisted.

“Yes, for _real_ detectives.” Father butted in, and Sherlock groaned.

“Can we not do this right now?” He begged. “Victor will be in soon, and he hates fighting.”

“Of course, dear.” Mummy replied, stroking his cheek.  “What’s taking him so long?”

“I asked him to wait in the car.” Sherlock allowed his mother a few pats before stepping away. “Victor is nervous to meet you both.”

“Oh, there’s no need to be nervous!” Father chuckled. “We’re excited to meet your boyfriend!”

“Oh, it’s natural to be nervous.” Mummy piped in.

“Yes…” Sherlock interrupted. “Well, you know how Father always makes terrible jokes when _he’s_ nervous, you know, to lessen the tension?”

“Of course, darling.” Mummy replied, earning herself a glare from her husband.

“Well, Victor does this thing…it’s completely ridiculous, but he thinks he’s being funny…” Sherlock began. “He…well, he likes to joke that I’ve kidnapped him, and he really get into the act. Sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop. I know it’s silly, but could you just laugh and play along a little bit? He’ll feel so much better.”

“We all do silly things when we’re in love.” Mummy said. “Of course we’ll laugh at his joke! Now, bring the poor boy in, he must be getting cold!”

“Thank you, Mummy.” Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “One other request…can I be the key-master for this weekend?”

“Oh, but you hate being the key-master.” Mummy said in surprise.

“I know, but…I’m feeling the Christmas spirit this year.” Sherlock said, hoping his sarcasm wasn’t seeping through. The smile his mother gave him, however, proved that it wasn’t. “And I’m probably the only one that can hide Mycroft’s mobile so he can’t find it.”

“Too true.” Father laughed. “Now, go get Victor. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“Of course.” Sherlock walked around his parents, feeling lighter than he had all day. Even John’s glare when he opened the car door couldn’t dampen his spirits.

“Alright, we’re all set.” Sherlock hummed, freeing John from the grasp of the fuzzy pink handcuffs at last. “Come inside. My family is excited to meet you.”

“Why are you so chipper?” John asked, rubbing at his wrists as he got out of the car, unconsciously moving so that he was walking alongside Sherlock as they made their way to the door. “I’m getting out of here immediately. I’m going to tell your family exactly what you did to get me here, then they will bring me back to London immediately.

Sherlock didn’t reply to John, choosing instead to lead him into the large manor, closing the front door behind them with a kick of his foot. “Come along, they’re in the sitting room.”

“Bloody hell, this place is huge.” He heard John mutter, and a quick glance behind him confirmed that the blond was taking in the sight as quickly as he could; visibly impressed with the décor.

They entered the sitting room, and Sherlock smiled at the eager looks on his parent’s faces. He placed his hand on the small of John’s back in a gesture he hoped looked sincere.

“Mummy, Father, this is Victor.” He said as the blond turned to look at his parents.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Victor.” Mummy said, grinning brightly.

“I’m not Victor.” John said flatly, stepping away from Sherlock’s hand. “I’ve been kidnapped!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what he could do to convince John to play the doting boyfriend, however. He lay in their bunkroom, trying desperately to think of how to break John out of his shell when a voice whispered from the top bunk:
> 
> “You’re a real prick, you know that.”
> 
> “I’m not a nice person.” Sherlock agreed softly. “But my mother is happy. That is my only intention in all of this. As soon as Christmas is over, I’ll never darken your doorstep again.”
> 
> “Of course you won’t.” John said. “Because I’ll have you arrested.”

**December 23 rd. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 14:45.**

 

The sitting room was silent for a few seconds before Violet and Siger began to laugh. Sherlock chuckled along with them as John stared at them in bewildered astonishment.

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?” John asked, looking more appalled by the second. “Your son has _kidnapped_ me, and he’s holding me hostage!”

“Of course he is, dear.” Mummy laughed, wiping daintily at her eyes.

“Our son, the loony.” Father concurred breathlessly, a wide smile on his face.

“I told you that he’s hilarious.” Sherlock said, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, one that was promptly brushed off. “He does this all the time.”

“What? No I don’t!” John cried. “He’s actually kidnapped me!”

“Victor, don’t you think that’s enough now?” Sherlock chuckled. “You’ve made your joke. It’s all good now.”

“But I-”

“Victor.” Sherlock interrupted, giving the gaping blond a chastising look. “Why don’t you go get settled? We’re in the bunk room at the end of the upstairs hallway.”

John stared at the three of them for a few moments longer before turning around and walking away. Sherlock could vaguely hear him mutter something about the sanity of his parents before his feet sounded on the stairs.

“Victor seems charming.” Mummy said after a minute, a bright smile on her face. “Oh, I am _so_ happy that you’ve found someone, Sherlock!”

“Yes, he’s really quite special.” Sherlock agreed, holding out his hand. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to relinquish you of your keys, however. Rules are rules.”

Mummy hummed in agreement, handing over her mobile and keys. Father was a bit more reluctant, but soon Sherlock is holding three sets of keys and phones, his own included.

“When is Mycroft supposed to arrive?” Sherlock asked, looking through the front window. As if Sherlock had called his name, a black car appeared, looking as shiny and new as it did brand new. “Ah, speak of the devil.”

“Oh, I do hope he’s brought Anthea. She was such a sweetheart.” Mummy practically chirped, peering out the window as well. The lack of Mycroft’s girlfriend, however, was instantly apparent.

“Hello Mummy.” Mycroft called out as soon as he entered the estate, a posh looking driver carrying his suitcase. “Father. Happy Christmas.”

“Back on the cake again?” Sherlock tutted, turning to look at his elder brother. “For shame. You know what it does to your figure. Your phone and keys, please.”

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock’s extended hand in disdain. “Whatever for?”

“I’m the key-master.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And I take my job very seriously.”

“But you hate being key-master.” Mycroft looked at Mummy and Father blankly. “Last year you practically tore apart the estate looking for your phone.”

“The past is the past.” Sherlock said, trying to sound as carefree as possible. “Now, your phone and keys.”

With a heavy, put-upon sigh, Mycroft handed Sherlock his phone and keys. Sherlock smirked at him, turning to press a kiss to Mummy’s cheek.

“I must go. I have the perfect hiding spot, and I have to check on how Victor is settling in. We’ll be down for dinner.” Sherlock said.

“Alright, dear.” Mummy said, patting Sherlock’s cheek. “Don’t be too long. Your father is making his world famous ham.”

“Hardly world famous, dear.” Father chuckled. “More like family famous. Victor isn’t a vegetarian, is he?”

“No, he isn’t.” Sherlock replied, hoping his deductions were correct. “He’ll love it, I’m sure.”

“Go on,” Mummy shooed Sherlock, her face practically glowing. “Go make that boyfriend of yours happy. We don’t want to drive him away!”

“But of course.” Sherlock smiled before turning away, making sure no one was watching as he hid the phones and keys.

 

**December 23 rd. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 21:35.**

John had been silent during dinner. Sherlock hadn’t been surprised of course, but his family was slightly put out.

_“It’s just nerves, dear.”_ He had heard his mother say to his father while they were washing up. _“I’m sure Victor will come around. You remember how you were when meeting_ my _family.”_

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what he could do to convince John to play the doting boyfriend, however. He lay in their bunkroom, trying desperately to think of how to break John out of his shell when a voice whispered from the top bunk:

“You’re a real prick, you know that.”

“I’m not a nice person.” Sherlock agreed softly. “But my mother is happy. That is my only intention in all of this. As soon as Christmas is over, I’ll never darken your doorstep again.”

“Of course you won’t.” John said. “Because I’ll have you arrested.”

“John, please stop with the dramatics.”

“Dramatics? You _kidnapped_ me! I think I’m allowed to be a bit dramatic.”

“Yes, well, you’re stuck here until Christmas.” Sherlock sighed. “You might as well enjoy yourself.”

“I am _not_ staying for Christmas.” John shot back. “I’m going to find those keys of yours, and I’ll drive back myself.”

“I wish you all the luck.” Sherlock chuckled. “I am a master at hiding things. Go ahead, the rest of my family is asleep.”

The top bunk was silent for a moment, and Sherlock wondered briefly if John had given up when he heard the tell-tale squeak of springs. Sure enough, he could see John’s foot emerge, climbing down the worn wood of the ladder.

“You’re actually going to go look?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow in John’s general direction. Not that he could see him, of course. The lack of outside lighting made it difficult to see.

“Of course I am.” John replied. “I want to get the hell out of here.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock hummed, flopping back down on his rather uncomfortable bed. “By all means.”

Sherlock could hear John pause, as if wondering if this was all some sort of trap, but less than a minute later his footsteps restarted, padding around the room. The door opened, then closed with a soft click, and Sherlock listened as John’s footsteps retreated.

Sherlock laid in bed for a half an hour, listening to the futile search of John’s. His footsteps quickly got erratic and frustrated, but never louder. Even while in the midst of being kidnapped, John seemed to be nothing if not polite.

He was just about to doze off, figuring that John would come up to bed when he had finished his failed search, when he heard the tell-tale click of the front door to the estate.

“Good lord.” Sherlock groaned, standing up and peeking out the window. The sight of John, bundled up tightly and walking steadily away from the house made him roll his eyes. Apparently he had plans of leaving, and the fact that he couldn’t find the keys wasn’t going to deter him.

Sherlock wrapped his blue robe around his shoulders, tying the sash tightly before leaving the bunkroom himself. Grabbing the key to Molly’s car from his hiding spot in the freezer, Sherlock made his way outside.

He started the car, allowing it to warm up, and to give John ample walking time, before putting the car into drive. It takes only five minutes before he sees John’s hunched figure, arms wrapped around his body to keep himself warm. He rolls his eyes again before rolling town the passenger side window.

“Come on, get in the car.”

“No.” John snapped shortly. “I’m not going back to that blasted estate.”

“Was it really so bad?” Sherlock’s voice is laced with amusement.

“No.” John sounded almost hesitant this time. “Your family isn’t all bad. Well, minus you. But I’ve got people to get back to.”

“Well, you’re not going to do it this way.”

“Oh no?”

“No.” Sherlock snorted. “The nearest inhabited building is over fifteen kilometres away. You’ll be walking for ages.”

John groaned, stopping in his tracks. He peered down the road as if to confirm Sherlock’s claim before turning to the car.

“You expect me to just get back in this car?” He said with gritted teeth. “Just go back to the bloody estate as though nothing happened?”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled at him.

“Fine.” John huffed. He strode over to the car, opening it up with as much anger as he could muster, plopping down in the seat.

“Now, was that so difficult?”

“Oh, shut up.” John muttered. “And take me back. I’m freezing.”

Sherlock obliged, chuckling the whole way home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is that…a phone??”
> 
> “Yes.” Mycroft managed to look only slightly guilty. “I have important work to do, and I can’t just leave my mobile for days on end. Sherlock has my personal phone.”
> 
> “Could I borrow it?” John asked eagerly.

**December 24 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 07:00.**

“Eat up, Victor.” Violet Holmes said, smiling brightly at him. “You’re as skinny as a beanpole.”

“Not as skinny as your son.” John assured her, earning himself a bright laugh. “This food looks absolutely delicious. Thank you very much.”

“We’ll have to see about getting you clothes.” Violet chatted, setting a plate full of sausage down on the table in front of him. “Sherlock tells me that you were both so quick to leave that you forgot your bags!”

“Yeah, something like that,” John muttered, his dark mood going unnoticed by Violet.

“He has a few spare clothes here, thank goodness. I think Siger’s clothes should fit you just fine. You seem to be about the same size.”

“That would be great, ta.” John took a bite of sausage, nearly choking on it when Sherlock walked through the door. The man looked unfairly good with his tousled hair still damp from the shower. Curls hung across his forehead almost artfully, and John had to force himself to look away before he was caught staring. The man may be gorgeous, but he was still a kidnapper.

“Ah, Sherlock, you’re awake.” Violet beamed at her son. “Do you know what I did with my large stockpot?”

“The one you boil potatoes in?” Sherlock frowned. “Last year it got melted in an _unfortunate_ incident involving the hideous tie that Mycroft bestowed upon me for Christmas.”

“Oh, you boys.” Violet shook her head, peering into cabinets. “Always fighting. Hopefully you don’t do such ridiculous things in front of Victor.”

John, who had been trying desperately not to laugh, looked over at his pseudonym, preparing to tell Violet all the ridiculous things that Sherlock had done to him. Of course, Sherlock seemed to anticipate such an action, and cut him off immediately.

“Why don’t you use a smaller pot?”

“I need a large one for the potatoes. We eat so many of them!”

“I could run out and get a larger pot.” John replied innocently, earning a beam from Violet and a panicked glare from Sherlock.

“That’s so kind of you, but really, I couldn’t ask you to-”

“No, he’s a guest!” Sherlock said earnestly. “He can’t be running errands for us!”

“I’ll go with him.” Siger’s voice piped up from the entrance of the kitchen. “A little father/son’s boyfriend bonding time.”

“Oh how wonderful!” Violet sang, and John shot Sherlock a smug look. “Yes, go get Victor dressed, and you two can run to the nearest store!”

John stood off the chair he had been occupying, following Siger into his and Violet’s bedroom. Siger’s clothes fit, and John thanked every deity that he owned several jumpers. He tugged on a striped one and a pair of jeans, then went to meet Siger in the sitting room where Sherlock was waiting, a sour look on his face.

“Drive carefully.” Sherlock told his father, handing over the keys to what John presumed was Siger’s car. “The ice is thick, and they hardly take proper care of roads out here.”

“I’ll be careful, Sherlock.” Siger chuckled, patting his son’s arm. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“See you, Sherlock.” John gave a little wave, following Siger out the door and getting into the car. Freedom was finally his!

 

**December 24 th. Tesco’s, York. 11:45. **

The whole outing had been a disaster, at least in John’s opinion. He had been fully ready to take off running as soon as Siger Holmes had stopped the car, after spending a half hour in the car with him, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Siger was beyond friendly, and John found himself quickly liking the man. They had walked through Tesco’s and John hadn’t contemplated running off even _once,_ and it wasn’t until he was in the car, a shiny new stockpot in the back seat, that he realised what had happened.

“So tell me, how did you meet my son?” Siger asked as they drove along the icy roads.

“Not much to tell, really. Bit of a whirlwind thing,” John said.

“Yes, that sounds like Sherlock.” Siger chuckled. “He may seem indifferent, but he’s got a romantic heart.”

_‘That I highly doubt’,_ John thought to himself. “He’s definitely interesting.”

Siger beamed at him as if he had paid Sherlock the highest of compliments. John knew that Sherlock’s family loved him, but it was clear that they didn’t expect a lot of positive comments about him, even from his apparent boyfriend.

It wasn’t long before they were pulling up in front of the estate, and John half expected to see Sherlock peering out the window. But no one came running out to greet them. John grabbed the new stockpot, accompanying Siger inside.

“He’s very handsome.” Violet’s voice drifted in from the sitting room. It was obvious that they had no idea that John and Siger were home, and John couldn’t help but stopping to listen, earning him a wink from Siger as he left the room, grabbing the stockpot on the way out.

“Yes, I agree.” He heard Sherlock reply, his voice soft. “I’m rather lucky.”

“When are you two going to talk about marriage?”

“Don’t mention marriage to Victor.” Sherlock’s voice rose, and John could hear a tinge of panic in his tone. “We haven’t been dating all that long. I don’t want you to scare him off.”

“No worries, darling.” A faint kiss could be heard, Violet pecking her son on the forehead. “I’ll keep quiet about the ‘M’ word.”

Shuffling from the other room could be heard, and John made his way into the room before he could be discovered eavesdropping.

“Oh, hello, Victor!” Violet greeted happily, and Sherlock’s head whipped around so fast that John nearly winced in sympathy. “Did you have a good time at the store?”

“A good a time as any.” John smiled at Violet, and she grinned before joining her husband in the kitchen. Sherlock stood, walking over to John rather quickly.

“You’re still here.”

“Oh, hello to you too. Yes I did have a nice time. The weather is dreadful, isn’t it?” John rolled his eyes. “Of course I am. I couldn’t run off and leave your father alone, now could I?”

“You like him.”

“Yes, he’s nice to me, unlike some people.”

“I’m nice!”

“You kidnapped me!” John threw his hands up in the air. “I think that qualifies as ‘not nice’, Sherlock!”

“That’s in the past.” Sherlock replied logically, and John couldn’t help but laugh.

“That was _yesterday_ , you prat!”

“That’s of little consequence. Yesterday is still the past.”

“You are absolutely unbelievable, you know that?” John ran a hand across his face. “I’m going outside.”

“Why?” Sherlock was nervous again.

“Because I need air.”

“But the nearest town-”

“Yes, I know.” John interrupted, walking towards the front door. “I just need to breathe without you standing here. I’m not going to run. I already tried that.”

“That is…acceptable.” Sherlock sighed. John took that as permission, and he left the house, his coat still wrapped around his lithe frame from earlier.

John walked around the side of the estate, attempting to gain control of his annoyance. Sherlock didn’t seem to have any idea that what he did was bad, and no matter what he said, he didn’t seem to be learning. John just felt bad for the poor man’s family. They seemed so nice.

“Ah, Victor.” A voice drawled, and John looked up to see Mycroft Holmes leaning up against the walls of the estate, a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Getting some air, are we?”

“Well, I am. It looks to me that _you’re_ avoiding it.”

“Nasty habit, cigarettes.” Mycroft said, flicking ash to the snow below. “But I can’t quit it. Never take up smoking.”

“I don’t intend to.” John replied, moving to stand next to Mycroft. He opened his mouth to break the silence when he heard a buzzing sound. “Is that…a phone??”

“Yes.” Mycroft managed to look only slightly guilty. “I have important work to do, and I can’t just leave my mobile for days on end. Sherlock has my personal phone.”

“Could I borrow it?” John asked eagerly. “I have people to call…wish them a happy Christmas and all that.”

“Yes, I suppose you can.” Mycroft looked amused, and he pulled out the phone, handing it to John. “Just don’t let Sherlock see. He’s the keymaster, you know, and apparently he’s taking his job _very_ seriously this year. I wonder why that could be.”

Mycroft looked like he already knew the answer to that question, but John ignored him, heading straight back into the house. He peeked around every corner, making sure Sherlock wasn’t waiting for him, then headed straight for a toilet, locking himself in.

He unlocked the phone, grinning when he saw he had full reception, and he quickly typed in a familiar number, listening impatiently as it rang.

“Where’s Victor?” John could hear Sherlock from the other side of the door, and he swore silently, praying that the other line would pick up.

“Hello?” A feminine voice on the phone said. “Mary Morstan speaking. Who is this?”

“Oh my god, Mary!” John said, keeping his voice low. “It’s John. Christ, I need your help!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, even when he was younger, Sherlock wanted to be a detective.” Violet said. “He would talk about solving murders, and examining bodies.”
> 
> “We thought he would grow out of it.” Siger said. “But I’m afraid he’s still the same old Sherlock.”
> 
> “I think the same old Sherlock is brilliant.” John blurted out, feeling as surprised as everyone else looked. “Sure, he can be a bit bossy, and sometimes it’s hard to tell that he cares, but he’s…well, he’s special.”

**December 24 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 12:55.**

“John Hamish Watson, you are a complete arsehole!” Mary said, “I waited for _hours_ at Higbies for you, and you never showed up!”

“Mary, I-”

“No, John, let me speak! You never called, texted, or anything!”

“But Mary-”

“You made me look like an idiot! Of all the stupid, rude things you could have done, this has to be the worst. I mean-”

“I was _kidnapped_!” John interrupted, clawing at his hair. Mary was silent for a moment before speak, her tone scornful.

“Kidnapped? Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“It’s true, Mary. Some bloke from the coffee shop kidnapped me. You have to get the police!”

“John, I don’t believe you.”

“I was going to propose, Mary.” John said earnestly, and he heard a small intake of breath. “I wouldn’t have left Higbies for anything less than being kidnapped, because I was going to ask you to be my wife. Do you understand now?”

“Oh, _John!”_ Mary squealed. “Yes! Oh, yes, I will marry you!”

“That’s great, good.” John replied patiently. “But I’m a little stuck right now, could you do that for me? Can you get me out of here? I’m in a cottage somewhere in Yorkshire.”

“Right away, love.” Mary hummed, sounding a little distracted. “Don’t worry, you’ll be home by Christmas!”

A sudden rapping on the bathroom door made John jump, and he nearly dropped the phone in his surprise.

“I have to go.” John whispered, “But I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yes yes. Love you too, and all that.” Mary said, and the phone clicked off. John let out a sigh, pleased to know that he would be rescued soon.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice floated through the door, and John stiffened, telling himself that his quickened heartbeat was merely due to surprise and adrenaline. “John, are you talking to someone in there?”

John stared at himself in the mirror, a smirk flitting across his face as he came up with a plan. He turned, opening the door quickly, causing Sherlock to stumble slightly. John held up the phone, wiggling it in between his fingers.

“Sorry, had to make a phone call.” John replied. Sherlock snatched the phone out of his hands, but it was obvious he knew the damage had been done.

“Who did you call?” Sherlock demanded, tucking the phone into his pocket.

“Does it matter?” John asked defiantly. “I called someone, and they’re going to come and rescue me.”

“So, that’s it then.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re just going to leave?”

“No, you know what, I’m not.” John’s smirk returned in full force. “I’m going to do something first. I am going to make your family absolutely love me.”

“What?” Sherlock looked surprised.

“That’s right. I’m going to be the world’s _best_ boyfriend.” John replied, watching the confusion on Sherlock’s face with glee. “And your family will absolutely adore me. That way, when the police come, you’ll look even worse.”

A mix of horror and grudging admiration dawned on Sherlock’s face. “You are surprisingly ruthless. I do think we could have gotten along had we met under different circumstances.”

John huffed a laugh, walking around Sherlock and heading towards the sitting room where the voices of Sherlock’s parents could be heard the soft shuffle of Sherlock’s stocking feet following him.

“Oh, Victor!” Violet called as soon as she saw them. “You’re just in time! We need someone to put the angel at the top of the tree.”

“But _I_ normally put the angel on the top of the tree.” Sherlock’s voice said from behind him, and John turned to look, catching a brief glimpse of annoyance before his face went blank.

“Yes, darling, I know.” Violet said. “But Victor is our guest.”

“I would _love_ to put the angel on top of the tree, Mrs Holmes.” John beamed at her, and she smiled back radiantly, handing the delicate angel over to him.

It was clear that the angel was an old family heirloom. The whole thing was made of crystal, and it looked as though it were a hundred years old. John stood on the ladder, climbing to the top and placing the angel in its spot gently.

“Oh, well done.” Violet clapped, and John took a bow, much to the amusement of Siger and Violet, and the annoyance of Sherlock.

“Yes, he put an angel on top of a tree.” Sherlock muttered, “How completely _talented_ of him.”

“Oh hush, Sherlock.” Violet sighed, patting his shoulder. “This is the attitude you always had with your childhood…er…well, they weren’t friends…”

“When Sherlock was a boy, he was rather rude to the children in the neighbourhood.” Siger explained to an obviously confused John.

“Terribly so. He was talented at his deductions, even then.” Violet chimed in.

“Mm, yes. One time, we paid a little boy down the street to be his friend.” Siger explained.

“He gave us back our money after two days.” Violet said, laughing.

John grinned, but it fell off his face when he saw the look on Sherlock’s. He looked completely miserable. John couldn’t help the guilt that swept through him at the sight.

“And then he bought that horrible skull.” Violet sighed, shaking her head. “Called him ‘Billy’.”

“Mummy…” Sherlock mumbled, but his parents ignored him.

“Took it with him everywhere.” Siger chuckled. “Said it was his best friend. Talked to him about his cases.”

“Cases?” John frowned.

“Oh, even when he was younger, Sherlock wanted to be a detective.” Violet said. “He would talk about solving murders, and examining bodies.”

“We thought he would grow out of it.” Siger said. “But I’m afraid he’s still the same old Sherlock.”

“I think the same old Sherlock is brilliant.” John blurted out, feeling as surprised as everyone else looked. “Sure, he can be a bit bossy, and sometimes it’s hard to tell that he cares, but he’s…well, he’s special.”

The room was silent for a moment, and John refused to look at Sherlock even though he could feel his eyes on him. Finally, Violet smiled.

“Yes, he is.” She said fondly, looking between John and Sherlock. “He is special.”

John climbed down the ladder when Mycroft entered the room, raising an eyebrow at the scene. “I feel as though I missed something.”

“You missed Victor putting the star at the top of the tree.” Violet said. “But you’re just in time for ‘ _Mr. Willowby’s Christmas Tree’_!”

“What on earth is _‘Mr. Willowby’s Christmas Tree’_?” John asked in confusion.

“It’s mummy’s favourite book. Something of a tradition.” Sherlock replied as they walked over to the sofa’s, sitting down so they could all face each other.

Violet grabbed a stack of books, shuffling through them until she came upon a black and white and green one. “Here we are!”

She offered the book to Sherlock, then pulled it back, leaving Sherlock’s hand hanging in mid-air. Then she gave the book to John, who grabbed it reflexively.

“Why don’t we have Victor read it this year?” She said cheerfully.

“B-but _I_ always read it.” Sherlock said, looking affronted. John looked over at Sherlock for the first time since he had put the angel on the top of the tree. He looked completely hurt, and John felt even guiltier.

“I know, dear.” Violet said. “But won’t it be nice to have Victor read it?”

Sherlock stared at her for a few seconds before rising jerkily, darting off towards the stairs. The four of them watched him go in shock.

“Did I do something wrong?” John asked in surprise.

“Don’t worry, he’s just having a tantrum.” Mycroft said, sounding almost bored. John could see that he was worried about his brother from the tightness in his eyes. “It will pass.”

“No, I think he’s hurt.” John set the book down on the sofa next to him. “I’ll be right back, I’ll go talk to him.”

John could feel three pairs of eyes follow his movements as he made his way up the stairs, he vanished from their view, but he knew they were just waiting, hoping that they would be down soon.

“Sherlock…” John tapped on the door to their shared room, pushing it open to see him sulking on his bed.

“Go away.”

“No.” John huffed a sigh. “What happened back there?”

“You were there, you saw it.” Sherlock snapped, not looking up as John moved to stand in front of him.

“I saw your family, and I saw them hand me a book.” John replied. “And I saw you get jealous about it.”

“I am not jealous.” Sherlock insisted, earning a snort from John.

“Really? Because it sure looked like it.”

“I’m not!”

“No?”

“They like you better than they like me!” Sherlock finally spluttered.

John’s jaw dropped open in surprise. “That’s not even true, and you know it.”

“No?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, flopping down on the bed on his back. “They told you everyone hated me as a kid, and that I’m the same way as an adult.”

“That’s what parents do.” John sighed. “They tell embarrassing stories to boyfriends and girlfriends. This was mean, yeah, but they didn’t do it because they don’t like you.”

“No?”

“No.” John confirmed. “It seems that they lack a filter. Kind of like you.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and John grinned at him in victory. He held out a hand, and Sherlock took it, letting John pull him into a standing position.

“Now come on, you can read the story.” John said.

“I wouldn’t mind if you read it.” Sherlock replied, and John turned to look at him in surprise.

“But you _wanted_ to read it.”

“You’re an idiot.” Sherlock said, stalking out of the room.

“Excuse me?” John gaped at him, before following close behind. They made their way to the sitting room, and Violet smiled as she saw them.

“Are you ready to read the story?” She asked pleasantly, looking between the two of them questioningly.

“Victor will read it this year.” Sherlock said, plopping back down in his spot. “But if he reads it wrong, then I’ll read it next year.”

John laughed softly, sitting down next to him and grabbing the book, opening it.

“I’ve never read it, so bear with me.” John said, glancing over at Sherlock once, who nodded back to him. John cleared his throat, opened the book, and began to read.

_“Mr. Willowby’s Christmas tree_

_Came by special delivery._

_Full and fresh and glistening green-_

_The biggest tree he had ever seen.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now interrupted your regularly scheduled chapter update for an important...er...informative note? The book here, as was mentioned, is called [Mr Willowby's Christmas Tree](http://www.amazon.com/Willowbys-Christmas-Tree-Robert-Barry-ebook/dp/B00A5MRGS2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1418187234&sr=8-1&keywords=mr+willowby%27s+christmas+tree%20) and it is my absolute favorite children's Christmas story. Like, 'Twas the Night before Christmas' is great and all, but Willowby is awesome. I never really see it around, so I don't know if it's more popular in other places than here, or what, but I thought I could spread the word of this glorious book.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would love if you played violin for me.” John said honestly, and Sherlock felt warm.
> 
> “Perhaps I shall. I do have one that I leave here, in case anyone wishes to hear a few songs.”
> 
> “Well, I wish to hear a few songs.” John said.
> 
> “Tomorrow.” Sherlock promised him, standing up. “I’ll play for you tomorrow."

**December 24 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 02:15.**

 

“ _Oh wasn’t it grand to have a tree-_

_Exactly like Mr. Willowby?”_

Sherlock couldn’t stop his smile as John finished reading, looking ever so proud of himself. He had done a good job reading the story as well, not that he would ever admit it out loud. His family began to clap, and Sherlock joined in, unable to hold back a chuckle as John took a bow just like the one he had done after putting the angel on top of the tree.

“Thank you,” John said with a laugh. “I’ll be here all week.”

“God, we’re not staying for a week, are we?” Sherlock mock-complained, earning a grin from John.

“You don’t have to, but I’m enjoying my time with your family,” he said, and Sherlock was surprised to discover that he was completely serious.

“Oh, we’re enjoying having you here!” Violet said, her smile wider than Sherlock had ever seen it. “Now come along. We haven’t eaten lunch yet!”

John was charming for the rest of the day, making Sherlock’s family laugh with tales of his patients. He even managed to make Mycroft laugh a few times, something Sherlock had thought was impossible. His mother scolded him for not telling them that John was a doctor, but John saved the day by telling them that he didn’t want them to know.

 _“Parents have such high hopes at that_.” John had said. _“That I’m going to be wealthy. Unfortunately, I’m poor.”_

Mummy had tutted, exclaiming that she didn't care if he was poor or rich, but that he loved her son, which John agreed to, his face completely serious. The look Mummy gave Sherlock was pure happiness, which made the whole kidnapping thing felt almost worth it.

If only he could ignore his guilt.

It was later that night that Sherlock and John entered the kitchen, catching Violet putting out milk and cookies.

“Mummy.” Sherlock groaned. “We don’t need to leave food out for Santa!”

“But what if he gets hungry?” She countered, winking at John. “Oh, and I almost forgot. You have to write down what you want Santa to bring!”

“Really?” Sherlock huffed as two notebooks were stuffed into his hands.

“It’ll be fun.” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and tugging. He led Sherlock past the sitting room, opening the door to the rarely used library.

“Go find a seat, I’ll be right back.” John said, and Sherlock took a seat on the sofa by the window, wondering what John was up to. He came back only seven minutes later, the cookies in one hand, and a bottle of wine and two glasses in the other.

“You stole Santa’s cookies.” Sherlock chuckled.

“I’ll leave a salad or something out for him.” John teased. “With all that sugar, he’s going to need something solid in his stomach.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, moving over to make room for John. John pulled up a stool, setting the cookies down on it, before handing Sherlock a glass, pouring each of them a healthy amount.

“So,” John began, plopping down and grabbing a cookie, taking a large bite. “We each need to write a Christmas list.”

“Yes, we do.” Sherlock said, handing one of the notebooks to John and grabbing a pen. “Though I’m not quite sure what to ask for.”

“Me either.” John said, grabbing a pen of his own and nibbling on the end of it. “A pony?”

Sherlock snorted. “Too cliched…think outside the box, John.”

“Oh really?” John challenged. “What will you ask for, then?”

Sherlock thought for a minute, wondering what he _would_ ask for, if Santa Claus could perform miracles. Then, he wondered if he should admit what he wanted aloud.

“To stop being thought of as a freak.” Sherlock admitted finally. “Or, at least to not be called a freak anymore.”

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say. John stared at Sherlock for a full thirty seconds, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land.

“You aren't a freak, Sherlock.” John managed to say. “You’re smart, and a bit eccentric at times, but not a freak.”

“John, I-”

“No, listen to me.” John cut him off. “You can’t believe people that would say that about you, alright? You’re so much more special than that.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said, toying with the edges of the paper clutched in his grip. “That is very kind of you to say.”

John smiled at him. It was a nice smile, and Sherlock wouldn't mind seeing more like them from John. Sherlock smiled back, gesturing towards John’s paper.

“Well, what about you? What are you going to ask Santa for Christmas?”

“To be able to practice medicine again.” John said, scribbling down a few words on a piece of paper. “The intermittent tremor in my left hand makes it difficult to perform surgeries, and I had a limp before this whole affair, if you remember deducing it.”

“I do, though I have yet to see your hand tremble.” Sherlock said, giving John’s hand a cursory look. John frowned, lifting his hand to stare at it in confusion.

“It hasn’t been shaking this whole time.” John said in awe. “Not a single tremor.’

“Not one.” Sherlock confirmed, and John beamed at him again, causing Sherlock’s stomach to do an odd sort of flip that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Well, it looks like my Christmas wish came true.”

“It appears so.”

They were silent for a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were sips of wine and crunches of cookie from the two men.

“What was your favourite Christmas?” John asked, and Sherlock looked up at him in confusion.

“Pardon?”

“Your favourite Christmas,” John repeated patiently. “I am sure you have one.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Tell me. Please?”

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock grabbed his glass of wine, staring at the red liquid in deep thought. “When I was younger, probably eight or nine, my family spent Christmases in our regular home near London. We didn’t own the estate yet.”

Sherlock could feel John’s eyes on him, and he glanced up, making sure he was paying attention. He supressed a shiver at the intensity in John’s eyes.

“Anyway, there was a family that lived nearby, and every year they had a Christmas party. That year they had asked me to play violin for their guests.”

“You play violin?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I do,” Sherlock confirmed. “Quite well, actually. I always have.”

“Naturally,” John chuckled, gesturing for him to continue his story.

“Well, the weather was horrid that year. We were completely snowed in, and we couldn’t make it to their house. I was upset, because I had wanted to play-”

“Or show off?” John interrupted.

“Naturally.” Sherlock grinned, earning a laugh from John. “My parents felt bad for me, so they and Mycroft sat down and listened to my entire program, which consisted of three songs.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It was…very nice. It was snowing, and there were Christmas lights…everyone was truly happy,” Sherlock said, taking a large drink of wine.

“Well, I would love if you played violin for me,” John said honestly, and Sherlock felt warm.

“Perhaps I shall. I do have one that I leave here, in case anyone wishes to hear a few songs.”

“Well, I wish to hear a few songs,” John said.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock promised him, standing up. “I’ll play for you tomorrow.

 

**December 24 th. New Scotland Yard, London. 10:45.**

 

The sound of heels clicking echoed in the mostly deserted street. A few people bustled past with last minutes Christmas gifts tucked under their arms, hurrying to get out of the cold.

Mary stared at the Met, her bright red coat wrapped snugly around her body. The faint sounds of a Christmas party could be heard from outside the building, laughter pouring from the doors. She let out a sigh before walking towards the building, letting herself in.

There was no one at the front desk, and Mary let out another sigh, giving an annoyed glance at her currently ring-less finger before following the sounds of the party.

There were multiple cops dancing to the music, some of them obviously drunk. Mary tapped on the door impatiently, waiting for one to assist her.

“Hello?” Mary said, but the cops ignored her, continuing to chat.

“Hello!” She shouted, earning a few glances from nearby officers. “I would like to report a crime!”

One of the cops came over. She was black with dark, curly hair, and she looked like she meant business. Mary liked the look of her instantly.

“Can I help you?” The woman asked professionally.

“Yes, you can.” Mary said, smoothing down the front of her red coat. “I would like to report a kidnapping.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Victor and Sherlock are standing under the mistletoe!” She practically chirped, looking pleased. “Oh, go on, I haven’t seen you two kiss at all!”
> 
> John’s eyes widened, and he looked up in surprise. Sure enough, he and Sherlock were directly under the mistletoe.

**December 25 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 08:30.**

 

“You two go out and have fun today,” was the first thing Violet said as soon as Sherlock and John walked into the kitchen.

“But there’s so much to do around here.” John interjected quickly, waving a hand at the raw goose that was ready to be popped into the oven.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, dear.” Violet said. “I can take care of dinner, you two need some alone time. Go have a stroll, enjoy each other.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who looked like he desperately needed some time away from his family, and nodded.

“Actually, that sounds wonderful.” John said, looping an arm through Sherlock’s. “We’ll be back around lunchtime.”

He tugged Sherlock out the door as Violet sang out a quick “have fun!” and into the snow outside.

 The sky was a bright blue, and the sun made the air feel practically warm as it made the snow glitter like thousands of diamonds. Snow crunched softly under their feet as they strolled along a shovelled path towards a small wooded area near the estate.

“So, are family get-togethers always this fun?” John asked as they passed the first tree.

“We don’t get together very often.” Sherlock replied. “If it’s not Christmas, then it’s because I’ve done something to upset Mycroft, making it very unpleasant.”

“That’s just…sad.” John said with a frown.

“You don’t get together with your family.” Sherlock reminded him, causing John to laugh.

“I don’t even know how you figured that out, but that’s true. My mum and dad are dead, so it’s a bit hard to get together with them.”

He watched guilt and surprise creep across Sherlock’s face, and quickly took pity on him. “They died ages ago. It’s just Harry and I left, and we don’t get on much. Never have.”

They were silent for a few moments, only the crunch of snow underfoot broke the silence in the woods. A few birds sing overhead, and John can’t help but smile at the peace of the day around them.

“How long have you known you wanted to be a doctor?” The soft question comes, and John looks over at Sherlock in surprise.

“Oh, ever since I was young, really. I’ve always wanted to help people, but medical school was expensive, so I joined the army to help pay for it.”

“Such a conundrum. Saving people and killing people.”

John laughed at that, causing Sherlock to laugh as well. “I suppose you’re right. But that’s hardly as interesting as what you do. Consulting detective, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock responded, trying to look unaffected; but John could see his eyes light up. “My parents hate it, they think it isn’t a real job.”

“I don’t care what they think. What do you do as a consulting detective?”

“When the police are out of their depth- which is always- they consult me.”

“So, you help catch murderers, and things like that?” John asked, fascinated.

“When I’m lucky. Sometimes it’s just a petty burglar.” Sherlock replied, looking proud of himself.

“That’s brilliant. I would love to see you on a case sometime.”

“You would?”

John grinned up at Sherlock, belatedly realising that they had come to a halt. “Yeah, I would.”

A variety of emotions flitted across Sherlock’s face: surprise, confusion, and several unidentifiable ones before a pleased expression dominated his features. 

“That would be marvellous.” Sherlock said, “Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much excitement for you?”

“I don’t know.” John chuckled as he realised Sherlock’s last statement was meant to be a jest. “I’ve already had a lot of excitement over the past few days. Some mad genius kidnapped me from a coffee shop just two days ago...wow, was it really only two days ago?”

Guilt replaced pleasure on Sherlock’s face, and John missed it instantly.

“You can’t take something back once it’s already done.” Sherlock said after a moment. “Even if you realise right away that it was wrong.”

“No, you can’t.” John agreed. “But sometimes something good comes out of a bad situation.”

“Something good?” Sherlock looked confused.

“Well, I did get to meet you, didn’t I?” John said softly. “I think that counts.”

“I kidnapped you.” Sherlock reminded him seriously.

“And gave me the best Christmas I’ve had in _years_.” John replied. “I cannot thank you enough for that.”

“I believe I must thank you for the same thing.” Sherlock said. “This Christmas would be unbearable without you here.”

“Oh, I’m sure any old bloke would have done. The real Victor might have been better.” John said, ducking his head.

“No, he wouldn’t have been. Only _you_ have made this Christmas…passable.”

John looked up, grinning at Sherlock’s reddening cheeks. Christmas was far more than passable for him, it was clear.

“Good, I’m glad.” John replied, and they continued their journey along the narrow walking path in the woods.

 

**December 25 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 10:55.**

An hour and a half of walking outside in the cold left John’s toes numb, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he and Sherlock entered the estate, stomping the snow off their shoes. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was still laughing as he continued to tell John about the things he used to do to Mycroft when he was younger.

“-and then, just as he was getting in the bath, a whole basketful of feathers was released from the ceiling, making him look like a chicken!” Sherlock said breathlessly, his giggles starting anew as John roared with laughter.

“Oh, lord. Not the feather story.” Mycroft sighed as he came out of sitting room, his face pinched. Violet and Siger followed him, looking much merrier than their eldest son at Sherlock’s laughter.

“Where did Sherlock get all those feathers from?” John asked, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes.

“Let’s just say my expensive down pillows were completely ruined.” Violet said, a small grin on her face. Her smile got wider as John stopped under the doorframe, and she nudged her husband.

“I was pulling feathers out of my clothes for weeks.” Mycroft sniffed. “But I got my revenge.”

“Is that what you call it?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, coming to rest beside John. “I didn’t realise putting feathers in my trouser pockets was adequate revenge.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond with something most likely scathing, when he was interrupted by Violet’s happy cheer.

“Victor and Sherlock are standing under the _mistletoe_!” She practically chirped, looking pleased. “Oh, go on, I haven’t seen you two kiss at all!”

John’s eyes widened, and he looked up in surprise. Sure enough, he and Sherlock were directly under the mistletoe.

Something brushed his cheek quickly, and John turned to see a red faced Sherlock pointedly looking anywhere but at him.

“There, a kiss.” Sherlock said quickly, looking flustered.

“No, a real kiss.” Siger said, shaking his head. “That barely counted as a kiss on the cheek.”

“Oh, come here.” John said, turning towards Sherlock and grabbing the front of his suit coat, tugging him closer. “I know you aren’t fond of displays of affection, but a kiss in front of your family won’t hurt.”

“It’s not that.” Sherlock said, looking nervous. “It’s-”

But what it was, John would never find out. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, which shut him up immediately. The other hand rested itself on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, playing with the soft curls. John gave Sherlock a reassuring grin before closing the distance, standing on his tip toes to reach the taller man’s lips.

It was only going to be a gentle brush of lips, but as soon as John tasted, he couldn’t get enough. He swooped in immediately, swallowing Sherlock’s gasp.

“So romantic!” Violet sighed happily, and John pulled back, his face flushing brilliantly. “Oh, look at you two, blushing like two teenagers!”

John looked up at Sherlock, and sure enough, his face was a matching shade of scarlet. “Oh, you know how it is, Violet. Every kiss with him is like a first kiss.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open, and John was struck by the insatiable need to kiss the shocked look from his face. He shook his head ruefully, finally looking away.

“Come on, let’s get some lunch, yeah?” John said.

“I ate toast earlier.” Sherlock complained, almost sounding like his normal self.

“Not enough, you prat.” John said good-naturedly. “You need to eat something more nutritious.”

“If you have your way, I’ll be as fat as Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered.

“Honestly, there’s no need to be childish.” Mycroft said scathingly.

“It’s good to see you two being so polite.” Siger said, and John looked back at him questioningly. Siger, it seemed, was being completely serious. “I was worried we would have another flour-bomb fiasco like two years ago.”

“Flour-bomb?” John snorted. “Now this is a story I’ve got to hear!”

 

**December 25 th. Higbies Coffee Shop, London. 11:00.**

 

The bell to Higbies Coffee Shop jingled merrily as two police officers and Mary Morstan entered, cold wind causing menus and loose napkins to flutter.

“Welcome to Higbies.” A bored voice drawled from the counter. “Our special today is a Candy Cane Latte.”

“We aren’t here for coffee.” Mary sniffed dramatically. “My _fiancé_ was kidnapped from here two days ago.”

The employee looked up in surprise, his eyes widening as he noticed the two cops standing in the coffee shop as well.

“Err…I wasn’t working two days ago. That would have been…Hooper and Holmes on shift.” He said, looking flustered.

“Could you give me their addresses, please?” The silver haired officer asked, flashing his detective inspector badge.

“Yeah, of course.” The employee scrambled to get a piece of paper and a pen. “Hooper is still in town; that much I know. Holmes went to some cottage for Christmas, and won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”

“Cottage!” Mary declared, causing the two officers to jump. “That’s where my darling fiancé said the horrible man took him. To a cottage.”

“While that’s all very good and everything, there are plenty of cottages in the country.” The female officer said, brushing the curly hair from her face. “Maybe this ‘Hooper’ will know what happened.”

“Thank you so much for your time…err…” The silver haired officer said, holding out his hand to shake.

“Phillip Anderson.” The employee said, shaking the DI’s hand wildly.

“Anderson. If you need to get a hold of me, all you have to do is call the Met and ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Or Sargent Sally Donovan.” The woman chimed in, shaking Anderson’s hand as well. “Thank you for your time.”

“No time for pleasantries. I have a fiancé to find.” Mary said, whirling out of Higbies and into the cold air once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, Sherlock," Mummy said, sounding disappointed. "Don't you think it's time to give up on that little flight of fancy? You've had your fun, but it's time to get a real job."  
> "It is a real job," Sherlock insisted, feeling humiliated.   
> "No, it isn't," Father sighed. "You need to grow up, Sherlock."  
> "I think what Sherlock does is brilliant," John chimes in.

**December 25 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 15:00.**

 

Sherlock sighed as his family and John gathered round in the sitting room, each of them grabbing their gift from under the tree. Mummy even remembered to get John something, and he held the lumpy package in his hands, _VICTOR_ scrawled in perfect penmanship on top.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” John said, looking touched. Sherlock didn’t have the heart to tell him that she had technically gotten that for Victor and not him, but as he was pretending to be Victor, he received it instead.

“Oh, but I did,” Violet said, smiling. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted; you know how Sherlock is, likes to keep things mysterious. Go on, open it up!”

John grinned at Sherlock, causing his stomach to do a weird sort of flip, before tearing open the wrapping paper.

The most hideous jumper that Sherlock had ever seen tumbled out of the wrappings. It was a deep blue, with some terrible red and white pattern round the collar and sleeves that completed the terrible ensemble. He opened his mouth to complain to his mother when John spoke up.

“Thank you, Violet. It’s perfect!”

Sherlock looked over at him in surprise, and he was shocked to find out that John was telling the truth. John grinned at the whole family before peeling off his borrowed jumper and putting on the brand new one. It looked good on him, though Sherlock probably wouldn’t admit it out loud. The dark blue hues brought out the blue in his eyes.

Perhaps he didn’t hate it as much as he originally thought.

“Oh, Victor!” Mummy sighed softly. “You look _so_ handsome. Tell him that he looks handsome, Sherlock.”

“You look very dashing,” Sherlock replied, flushing. Clearly he was coming down with a fervour if his temperature kept fluctuation at such an alarming rate.

“Ta,” John said with a grin, shooting a wink at Sherlock before sitting down. “Now I want to see what you got for Christmas. Come on, open up!”

Mycroft went next, unwrapping his gift with careless ease. His eyebrows raised as he took in the briefcase embossed with his initials.

"Thank you, mummy. Father," He said, and though he didn't show it, Sherlock could tell that he was quite please. Mummy could tell as well, and she beamed brightly at him. 

They continued around the group, Father receiving warm woollen socks and Mummy being gifted a nice perfume set. 

"Alright, Sherlock, you're next." Mummy said cheerily. 

Sitting in front of him were two wrapped gifts instead of one. Sherlock frowned, picking up the smaller of the two and unwrapping it.

"Ties," He said, feeling confused. "But I don't wear ties."

"But you will." Mummy said. "Open your second gift."

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Sherlock unwrapped his second gift. He knew what it was, but he desperately hoped that he was wrong. He never  _was_  wrong.

It was a beautiful briefcase, identical in every way to Mycroft's, save for the initials.  _W.S.S.H._  gleamed back at him almost mockingly, and he had to work to place a false smile on his face.

"It's for when you join Mycroft in the government," Father said cheerfully. "You two can match."

"But I don't  _want_  to work in the government." Sherlock reminded his parents. "I like my job as consulting detective."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mummy said, sounding disappointed. "Don't you think it's time to give up on that little flight of fancy? You've had your fun, but it's time to get a real job."

"It _is_ a real job," Sherlock insisted, feeling humiliated. 

"No, it isn't," Father sighed. "You need to grow up, Sherlock."

Sherlock ducked his head, face red in shame. The room is oppressively silent, and he just wants to go home and sleep for about a year.

"I think what Sherlock does is brilliant," John chimes in. "He saves people, he proves them innocent. I can't think of a nobler career than that." 

The room is silent as Sherlock's family muses over John's words. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to look at John, worried that he would find pity in his eyes.

"I have a present for Sherlock, too," John's soft voice says at last, and Sherlock turns to blink at him in confusion. He looks upset, but not for himself. Though why John would be upset for Sherlock, he would never know. 

"Oh, of course," Mummy says quickly, pleased that John broke the tension. 

"Right," John stands, tugging at the hem of the new Christmas sweater. "Well, I had planned on doing this in private, but I think now is as good a time as any."

John turned towards Sherlock, and gave him a reassuring look.

"What are you doing J-  _Victor_?" He hissed.

John, instead of answering, pulled a velvet box out of his jeans, kneeling in front of a now gaping Sherlock.

"Will you do me the great honour of becoming my husband?" John asked, opening the ring box to reveal a simple gold band. 

Mummy's shriek of joy made the two of them jump. Sherlock looked over at her, startled to find that she had tears in her eyes. 

"Say yes! Oh you  _have_  to say yes!" She sobbed in joy. 

Sherlock turned back to John, his heart pounding erratically, and he could no longer ignore his symptoms.

He was in love with John Watson.

Oh, this was bad. This was very bad. Sentiment on its own was a destructive force, but to fall in love with someone who was so impossibly out of reach was a death sentence. 

"I will, yes." Sherlock breathed, nodding viciously. "Yes."

"Oh, my baby is getting married!" Mummy cried as John slipped the band on Sherlock's finger. It fit rather well, considering it was a woman's wedding band. A bit snug, but not so obvious that it was meant for someone else. 

“Welcome to the family, Victor.” Father said with a firm pat to John’s back.

“I’m sure Victor and Sherlock would like to be alone right now.” Mycroft said helpfully, and Sherlock shot him a suspicious look. Mycroft never helped anyone out unless it suited him. “Oh come off it, Sherlock. My brother just got engaged, I don’t think I need a reason to help you out.”

“Oh, he’s right.” Mummy said. “You two go get cleaned up for dinner. We’ll meet at, oh…seven?”

“Sounds perfect, dear.” Father said, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Yes, perfect.” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him from the room before they could be stopped.

They made it to their room without further incident. Sherlock shut the door, leaning against the wood for support. 

"Thank you." He said after a moment. "You didn't have to do all that."

"No, I suppose I didn't." John mused. "But I wanted to."

"Why?" Sherlock couldn't keep himself from asking.

"Because they were being rude to you." John sighed. "And you deserve better than that."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said. "You were going to purpose this weekend, weren't you?"

He held up his left hand as he straightened, the gold band glinting.

John was silent for a moment, staring at the ring on Sherlock's hand in contemplation. 

"Yes." He admitted, sounding almost guilty. "Not with that ring, obviously. That's the wedding band, not the engagement ring, but I was going to propose, yes."

Sherlock nodded, trying to squash the horrible feeling of his heart being crushed. John was never his, and he had been foolish to allow himself to entertain the possibility that he could be.

"I am sorry." Sherlock repeated. "You should be with her right now."

"Don't." John said, commanding his attention with just the one word. "I meant what I said before. This has been the best Christmas I have ever had."

Sherlock gave John a weak smile, nodding his head towards the bathroom door.

"I showered earlier today. I know that you've been dying to get a shower in."

"Ta. Yeah, I have. I'll be out quick, I promise." John said, entering the bathroom and shutting the door with a soft  _snick_. 

Sherlock huffed out a breath, moving across the room and pulling out his violin, tuning it quickly before tossing it on his bed. Playing wouldn't do him any good now. 

The shower turned on, and Sherlock let out a small groan, flopping on the bed next to his violin. It was going to be a long night. 

 

**December 25 th. Hosier Lane, London. 15:30.**

Molly had been having a nice dinner with Tom when the police arrived at her door. Tom was, of course, very confused. Not that Molly wasn’t, of course, but when they mentioned Sherlock’s name, she could hardly bothered to be surprised.

“Oh, he’s up in Yorkshire with his family.” She said to Sargent Donovan, who was exceptionally nice. The blonde lady in the red coat was a bit rude, but Molly could hardly blame her; she _had_ lost her fiancé, after all.

“Yorkshire.” Detective Inspector Lestrade repeated thoughtfully.

“Yes. I have Sherlock’s number, but he told me that I shouldn’t bother to text. They hide their phones, you see. To become closer as a family, I think.” Molly continued.

“Do you know if he had anyone with him?” Donovan asked.

“No. He was going to bring his arse of a boyfriend- oh gosh, I’m so sorry!” Molly covered her mouth, embarrassed that she had said a swear word in front of the police. “Anyway, Victor broke up with Sherlock that very afternoon, so he went by himself.”

“We don’t think that’s what happened.” Lestrade said. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a photograph of a man who appeared to be thirty or so. “Do you recognise this man?”

“He was in Higbies two days ago.” Molly said, nodding. “He came up to place an order, and we were all out of regular old coffee so Sherlock- oh. Oh no.”

“He kidnapped my John.” The blonde lady shrieked, making Molly jump. “He kidnapped him right out of the blue, and you let him!”

“Well, I didn’t know. Sherlock has never kidnapped anyone before…” Molly said, and Tom put a comforting arm around her.

“It’s not your fault.” Donovan said soothingly. “You’ve been very helpful. Now, can you tell me where Mr Holmes took Mr Watson?”

“I have the address.” Molly said, standing up and grabbing her copy of _Pride & Prejudice,_ which she had been re-reading, and pulled out her makeshift bookmark that had the address to the Holmes’ winter estate scrawled messily across the front in blue pen. “Here you are.”

“Thank you, Ms Hooper.” Lestrade said, grabbing the piece of paper. “You have been a huge help.”

“Is Sherlock in a lot of trouble?” Molly asked softly.

“Yes, he is.” Donovan answered bluntly. “We’ll get out of your hair now. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas.” Molly said, letting the police and the blonde lady out of her flat before turning back to Tom, feeling miserable.

“You did the right thing, love.” Tom said, going to hug her.

“I know, but why does it feel so wrong?” She whispered, burying her face in his chest.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John came down less than ten minutes later, a button up that belonged to Father looked dashing on his short frame. In one hand he held a blanket, and in the other was Sherlock’s violin.

**December 25 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 15:30.**

 

Sherlock didn't hear the shower shut off, so deep in thought he was. The soft  _snick_  of the door opening caught his attention, however, and he blinked to awareness. 

"You took ages." Sherlock complained looking up from his prone position on the bed. "I was starting to think you-"

He broke off when he caught sight of John, a red and green Christmas towel slung low on his hips. 

His mind, for the first time in recorded history, completely short circuited. Instead of deductions running through his mind, all he could focus on was the slight sheen of John's damp skin. A single drop of water hung from the end of John's hair, glistening in the light before dropping to his shoulder, making a quick trail over a starburst scar, down tight muscles, finally coming to a halt at the garish towel.

"You alright?" John's voice broke through Sherlock's distraction, and he swallowed thickly, averting his eyes at last.

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied quickly, sitting up. "You should dress, or we'll be late for dinner."

"We have plenty of time before dinner." John said, laughing softly. “I actually have something in mind first. Just let me get changed, and then we'll go downstairs." 

"Right. Let me just give you some privacy." Sherlock said, standing and practically running from the room in his haste. If he had been paying attention, he would have heard a fond huff of laughter from John.

John came down less than ten minutes later, a button up that belonged to Father looked dashing on his short frame. In one hand he held a blanket, and in the other was Sherlock’s violin.

“John?” Sherlock asked in confusion, but John just shook his head with a smile, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him. He led Sherlock through a winding path through the estate, ending up in a small, enclosed porch with a crackling fireplace.

“I don’t think I’ve been in here more than once.” Sherlock mused, watching John as he spread the blanket across the glossy wood floors. “There is a sofa behind you.”

John laughed, sitting down on the blanket and leaning his back against the small sofa. “It ruins the ambiance. Just humour me, okay?”

“Very well.” Sherlock sniffed, pretending to sound put-out, which only made John laugh again. “You brought my violin.”

“I did, yes.” John glanced down at the violin before handing it up to Sherlock, who took it without thought. “I want you to play for me.”

“Here?” Sherlock asked, looking around the small but cosy room.

“Please?”

Sherlock plucked a string nervously before swinging it to his shoulder, holding the bow aloft. He sucked in a breath before beginning to play. He only realised that he was playing Paganini’s Caprice no. 24 after he started playing it, though he realised that his subconscious would want to show off for John. He quickly changed into something more seasonal, an ornamented melody of _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ , which caused John’s face to light up.

 _‘It would be very pleasant to kiss John again’,_ Sherlock decided as he switched to a hearty rendition of _Jingle Bells_. Not because he wanted to kiss John. Of course he didn’t, and maybe if he continued to lie to himself, he would believe it. John had been a very nice kisser, after all, and he wouldn’t mind if he were put in the situation of having to kiss him again, regardless of feelings he was trying to ignore.

 _‘But would_ John _mind it?’_ He wondered to himself. _‘Not that he would_ want _to kiss me, of course, but would he loath being made to kiss me again?’_

Sherlock was thinking much too hard about this, it seemed. Apparently the universe agreed with him, for that was the moment that mummy decided to poke her head in, grinning at the two of them brightly.

“Oh, Sherlock. You play marvellously, as always.” She sighed, pressing a hand to her heart. “But I need to ask you a favour.”

“Of course I’ll take out the rubbish.” Sherlock replied, ending with a final chord from the original Paganini before setting his violin down.

“Do you need my help?” John asked, scrambling to his feet.

“Nonsense, Victor.” Mummy said. “You’re our guest.”

“It’s quite cold out.” Sherlock replied sensibly, giving John a small smile. “You stay inside, where it’s warm. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

He turned on his heel at that, slipping out of the room quickly as he worked to regain his thoughts. Playing his violin for John had been almost intoxicating.

Sherlock wondered if this was what having a proper friend felt like. Not that Molly Hooper wasn’t a proper friend, per se, but she was from a difference social group than Sherlock. He was a loner, and she needed to have friends, and people to talk to, and cats. John was different sort of friend, they clicked. John was wonderful.

_And handsome too._

Oh, he needed to stop thinking.

Sherlock grabbed the rubbish bag, tying the top in a knot before heading for the back door, heading out into the cold without even a coat on.

“Ah, brother mine.” A voice said, and Sherlock looked round to see Mycroft standing there, a lit cigarette in hand.

“I hope you have two.” Sherlock dumped the rubbish bag on the pavement, reaching out to grab the fresh cigarette that was wordlessly passed to him.

“So…Victor.” Mycroft mused aloud, a knowing glint in his eye. Sherlock rolled his eyes, diverting the subject.

“So…Anthea?”

“What about Anthea?”

“You aren’t dating her anymore.” Sherlock stated, causing Mycroft to cough.

“Well, you were never dating Victor in the first place.” He retorted, and Sherlock choked on his cigarette smoke.

“What are you-?”

“Don’t play innocent,” Mycroft said, looking pleased with himself. “It was clear that Victor was just a paid actor…at least, at first. Now, it seems that he’s much fonder of you…”

“How clear?” Sherlock asked, something akin to panic swelling in his chest.

“No worries, Mummy and father have no idea.” Mycroft said. “Small mercies.”

“You’re not dating Anthea.” Sherlock repeated, trying to regain foothold on his own blackmail.

“No, I never was.” Mycroft admitted. “She is my assistant, no more.”

“Why did you lie?” Sherlock asked, his shoulders relaxing as he took another drag from his cigarette.

“I didn’t like anyone at the time, but it made Mummy happy to think me in a committed relationship.” Mycroft replied.

“That implies that you like someone now.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“An astounding deduction.” Mycroft sneered, though Sherlock could see the worry behind the mask. “Really, some of your best work yet.”

“Don’t be so pedantic,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Come out with it, who is it?”

Mycroft was silent for a minute, the soft cherry glow of his cigarette almost touching the filter. “He works for the police.”

“A cop?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“A detective inspector.” Mycroft corrected.

“Are you…dating him?”

“Hardly.” Mycroft snorted. “I very much doubt Gregory considers me a viable contender for dating. Why are you asking, anyway?”

“I _do_ care about you, you know.” Sherlock said, trying to sound as disgusted as possible. “Also, you never know what will be good for blackmail.”

“Why do I even try?” Mycroft asked, stubbing out his cigarette.

The door opened, and Mummy poked her head out, a smile on her face.

“Boys! Dinner is ready, and- good lord, you two aren’t smoking out here, are you?” She demanded, looking upset.

“No!”

“It’s Mycroft’s fault!”

Mummy gave them a disapproving look, and both Sherlock and Mycroft hung their heads in shame and fear. It was never good to cross mummy.

“Dinner is ready.” She repeated. “I suggest you come inside, before you catch your deaths.”

She vanished back into the house, and they followed her, Sherlock intentionally forgetting about the garbage he left on the sidewalk.

“Of course you would blame me.” Mycroft hissed.

“Naturally. I don’t know why you act so surprised.” Sherlock chuckled. He earned nothing but an aggravated sigh from Mycroft, who quickly entered the warm house, Sherlock tailing him closely. With all the excitement that had happened over the past few days, you would think dinner would be calm.

But I suppose you can imagine the Christmas dinner.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can imagine the Christmas dinners...

**December 25 th. Holmes’ winter estate, Yorkshire. 18:45.**

 

The kitchen table was laden with nothing short of a feast. Bowls of corn, peas, carrots, and other vegetables dotted the table, framing a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and a steaming goose. 

Sherlock walked around the table to sit in the empty chair next to John, who was heaping Yorkshire pudding onto his plate.

"The food looks fantastic, Violet." John said, moving on to some green beans. 

"Thank you, Victor, dear." Mummy said, patting her hair as she sat next to father.  "It was no trouble at all. It's nice to be able to cook for more people. Maybe next year Anthea will be here?"

She gave Mycroft a pointed look. Mycroft, for his part, accidentally dropped a rather large portion of potatoes on his plate, of which some spilled over onto the table. He cleared his throat rather nervously before speaking.

"That is an unlikely event to occur." He said, not looking at mummy or father. "Anthea and I are not dating."

"Oh no, you two broke up?" Mummy asked, distraught.

"Not exactly." Mycroft sighed. "We were never dating."

"You were never- Mycroft David Holmes, why on earth did you lie to me??" Mummy demanded in shock. 

"I didn’t think it would be an issue.” Mycroft sighed. “I didn’t find anyone attractive at the time, so I thought there wouldn’t be any harm in letting you assume my assistant was my girlfriend.”

“At the time?” Mummy asked, raising her eyebrow.

“Well, I find myself attracted to-”

“Oh, what’s her name?” Mummy cooed happily.

“ _His_ name is Gregory Lestrade, though he hardly knows I exist.” Mycroft said, keeping his eyes fixed on the food he was piling in front of himself.

“Oh, you like a man.” Father beamed at Mycroft. “Please don’t tell me that you were hesitant to tell us because of that.”

“Well, initially, perhaps.” Mycroft admitted. “Though I had rather figured out your views when Sherlock mentioned that he was dating a man.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking a large bite of goose. His own plate was now piled high with food, though he doubted he would eat it all.

“It’s not like I broke it to them gently.” He reminded Mycroft. “’Mentioned’ is such a casual word.”

“Oh god, you probably stormed in one day, told them about your boyfriend, then flounced off again.” John cut in, looking amused.

“That is exactly how he did it.” Mummy laughed, looking happier than Sherlock had ever seen her. “Now, next year you’ll have to bring this Gregory fellow.”

“As I said, he doesn’t-”

“He would be foolish not to like you back.” Mummy cut Mycroft off.

Mycroft merely smiled at her before turning his full attention on his food. A comfortable silence settled over the dining room, each person enjoying the comradery without having to spoil it with useless chatter. A small movement from John caught Sherlock’s eye, and he looked over, surprised to see John grinning at him. He smiled back, a warm, swooping sensation completely turning his brain offline for a second.

It was the nicest dinner Sherlock had ever had, so naturally, it couldn’t last.

The room was almost completely full of policemen before Sherlock fully grasped the gravity of the situation. One moment he was enjoying John’s smile, and then suddenly the room was packed with two dozen or so of Scotland Yard’s finest, several guns pointed at each person seated around the dinner table.

“What on earth is going on?” Father exclaimed, looking befuddled.

“Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for the kidnap of John Watson.” One of the officers said, his gun pointing to each one of them in turn.

“Who’s John Watson?” Mummy asked, her face white with shock.

“This is John Watson.” Another officer said, grabbing hold of John and pulling him behind her before aiming her gun at Sherlock, whose hands were in the air.

“That’s not John Watson.” Mummy scoffed. “His name is Victor Trevor, and he is my son’s boyfriend.”

“His name isn’t Victor, Mummy.” Sherlock said meekly, and all eyes turned to him.

“What do you mean?”

“His name is John Watson.” Sherlock looked down at his lap in shame. “And what they say is true. I…I kidnapped him.”

“You kidnapped him?” Mycroft looked shell-shocked. “I thought you paid a random man to pretend to be your boyfriend.”

“You thought I was paid?” John asked, and Sherlock looked up at him. His face was unreadable; at least, what little he could see of it. The officer, who’s name according to her badge was Donovan, was doing her best to keep him out of Sherlock’s view. “Why?”

“Mycroft?” The officer who had first spoken asked, looking surprised. He took off his protective helmet, silver hair catching Sherlock’s eye.

“You’re that officer I spoke with two days ago.” Sherlock declared. “How do you know my brother?”

“Mycroft is your brother?” He asked, looking between Mycroft and Sherlock in surprise.

“Gregory.” Mycroft acknowledge gravely.

“Gregory??” Mummy’s voice was growing shriller.

“Could we stop this little love fest, Lestrade?” Donovan sighed, grabbing Sherlock and putting him in handcuffs. “We do have a crime to stop, or have you forgotten?”

“Right.” Lestrade sighed, and he went over, handcuffing Mycroft in a regretful sort of manner. “Because you are accomplices in this crime, we have to take your whole family in as well.”

“They didn’t know.” Sherlock said quickly, “They had no idea that Victor was actually John.”

“Sorry, rules are rules.” Donovan said, not unkindly. “We’ll take you into the station, and sort it out from there.”

Sherlock watched as officers proceeded to handcuff his parents, who were too shocked to react properly. The officers began to lead them to the front doors, John trailing along behind them, looking helpless.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said softly, causing John to straighten up.

“For what?”

“For everything. Being arrested aside, this has been the best Christmas I have ever had.”

John gave a small bark of laughter that was laced with sadness. “I haven’t done anything but complain and get you arrested.”

“To be fair, I do deserve it.”

“Yeah.” John sighed. “But I’ve enjoyed my time here too.”

“Enough chatter.” Donovan said, coming in between Sherlock and John. “I’m taking Holmes to jail, and we’ll have Sargent Dimmock take you to your fiancée.”

“My fiancée?” John asked, looking blank.

“A miss Mary Morstan?”

“Mary…right, Mary.” John said, tossing Sherlock another unreadable look. “That’s…yeah, she’ll be worried, I suspect.”

“Her fiancé was kidnapped.” Dimmock piped in. “I should say so.”

Sherlock said nothing more as he and his family were lead out to the police cars. With the glare that Mycroft was shooting him, and the gold band on his ring finger that felt tighter by the second, Sherlock knew that it was going to be a long night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John Watson is a kind, forgiving man, and he’s the only reason that you’re aren’t going to spend five more years in prison.” She continued fiercely. “If it were up to me, you would be in there for a long time.”
> 
> “John is a good man.” Sherlock agreed softly. “I apologise for all the hurt I have caused the both of you.”

**December 26 th. New Scotland Yard, London. 09:00.**

 

“You’re free to go.” Was the first words out of the guard’s mouth that morning. The Holmes family blinked at him collectively, confusion written on each of their faces. It had been a long, quiet night, and Sherlock felt like he was going to explode from all the unspoken tension.

The guard sighed as he opened up the barred door, standing aside to let Sherlock’s family out. “The poor sap didn’t press charges. I would have, had I been him.”

“Thank you, but we didn’t ask for your opinion.” Mycroft bit back, shooting the officer a cold glare. The guard rolled his eyes as the Holmes’ filed out slowly, making their way to the entrance of New Scotland Yard.

As soon as they hit sunlight, they scatter, making their way towards their own homes. Sherlock is left on the sidewalk, feeling unbearably lonely. It’s ridiculous, as he’s no more alone than he was three days before, but the sudden realisation of it all hit him like a truck.

With a heavy heart, Sherlock made his way away from the door, sitting down on a bench with a heavy thud.

“I heard you were being released early.” A familiar voice said from behind him, and Sherlock whipped around to stare. _John._

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, feeling thunderstruck. John was supposed to vanish, to never appear again, yet there he was, wearing the jumper that Mummy bought for him.

“I wanted to see you, to make sure you and your family are alright.” John said, sitting down next to him. Sherlock gave John a small smile, his stomach doing all sorts of gymnastics. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to tell John how he was feeling.

“Oh, they’re incredibly upset with me. Wouldn’t say one word the whole night.” Sherlock said. “But we’re fine, otherwise. How about you?”

_Perhaps John could learn to love me too._

“Oh, you know. I’m doing alright.” John grinned at Sherlock, which caused another flutter in the pits of his stomach. “Barely got any sleep.”

“This is yours.” Sherlock said quickly, pulling out the ring that John had fake-proposed to him with. God, he couldn’t believe it was only a day ago. “Now you can give it to your fiancée…Meredith, was it?”

John rolled his eyes, a small smile still on his lips. “Her name is-”

“John!” A warm voice called, causing both men to realise just how close they had been sitting. Sherlock looked up to see a pretty blonde woman in a red coat walking towards them. “John, we have so much to do, what are you doing sitting out here?”

She looked from John to Sherlock, confusion flitting across her face, followed by understanding, then anger.

“Is this him?” She asked John, pointing at Sherlock, a frown on her face. Without getting an answer, she turned to Sherlock, glaring fiercely. “Listen, buddy, I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re a horrible person.”

“Mary.” John chastised, but she wasn’t paying attention to John.

“John Watson is a kind, forgiving man, and he’s the _only_ reason that you’re aren’t going to spend five more years in prison.” She continued fiercely. “If it were up to me, you would be in there for a long time.”

“John is a good man.” Sherlock agreed softly. “I apologise for all the hurt I have caused the both of you.”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was so soft, so tender, that for a moment, Sherlock could imagine, could believe…

_But it was never meant to be._

“We have to be going now.” Mary said, tugging on John’s jumper. He stood, letting her loop an arm around his. “Wedding shopping to do, and all that.

“Right…goodbye.” Sherlock looked up, looking at John one last time before he was gone. John looked back at him, waved once, and then he was gone, trotting after his fiancée like a puppy.

_Alone is what I have, alone protects me._

**February 14 th. Higbies Coffee Shop, London. 13:45.**

"I loathe valentine’s day." Sherlock huffed, glowering at the paper hearts strung along the walls in Higbies. 

"It's fun." Molly replied, setting a mug of coffee in front of Sherlock. It was a hideous shade of red, and Sherlock glared at that, too.

"Ha." He said, grabbing the newspaper and beginning to flip through it. "It's a fool’s holiday, contrived to convince people to purchase more candy. It has no import to the daily lives of-"

Sherlock stopped mid-rant, his eyes widening in shock. He had no intention on stopping at the wedding announcement page, but the picture at the top right caught his eye.

It was a nice picture of John. While he wasn't smiling, he stood there looking pleased, a beaming Mary on his side.

        Dr John Watson and Miss Mary Morstan are pleased to announce their engagement, and are to be married the 14th of February of this year.

There was a soft gasp behind him, and Sherlock turned to see Molly standing there, looking devastated. 

"Oh, Sherlock. I am so sorry." 

"It's fine." Sherlock lied, closing the paper. Upon second glance, he realised it was over a month old. "I'll be fine. John is with Mary now, no changing that."

"You could go to the wedding!" Molly wrung her hands. "You could-"

"Do what, Molly?" Sherlock asked, feeling broken. "Tell him that I'm in love with him? I kidnapped him, for god’s sake. He was polite and everything, but I can't do that."

"But Sherlock..."

"I can't." Sherlock sighed, taking a sip of his coffee. "Will you be at my honours ceremony tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Molly said, her smile a little wobbly. "I mean, it's not every day your best friend solves a murder."

"If I have my way, it will be." Sherlock said, standing up and enveloping Molly with a tight hug. "I have to be going."

"But you didn't even finish your coffee," she protested, but Sherlock waved her off, leaving quickly through the front door. He needed to put as much distance between himself and that paper as possible.

 

**February 14 th. New Scotland Yard, London. 20:00.**

About a month after the  _incident_ , Lestrade let Sherlock onto a crime scene; mostly because Sherlock wouldn't stop pestering him, but it didn't hurt that he found Sherlock's elder brother cute, either. Sherlock had solved it in under fifteen minutes, leaving the police officers plenty of time to evacuate when he deduced that the murderer had also planted a bomb under the crime scene to get rid of any evidence. Sherlock was a hero, and New Scotland Yard held a press conference to honour him.

Sherlock's hand was shaken multiple times and he was quite sure that the limb would fall off in the next few hours or so. 

He was presented with a sturdy medal that would immediately get shoved into a drawer somewhere. 

All in all, it was a tedious affair that Sherlock couldn't wait to be over. He figured that his family wouldn't be bothered to attend, so when he saw his parents and Mycroft coming towards him, he was shocked.

"Sherlock, I am so proud of you!" Mummy cried, flinging her arms around Sherlock's neck and pulling him into a tight hug. "Oh, my baby boy is a  _hero_."

"It was nothing." Sherlock spluttered as Father hugged him as well.

"It most certainly wasn't  _nothing_." Father said. "What you did was incredible, and I am so sorry for not encouraging you to do this sooner."

"You mean-"

"Sherlock, I am proud of you." Father said, and Sherlock felt quite warm. "No more trying to find you a different job. Not from me."

"Thank you." Sherlock said after a moment. Suddenly, the entire press conference seemed a whole lot less tedious. 

"Now, when are you going to find yourself a nice boyfriend?" Mummy asked.

"Mummy." Sherlock groaned. "Why would you bring that up?"

"It's just...you looked so happy with Vic- ah, I mean, with John. Are you two still talking?"

"No, we aren't." Sherlock looked away, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest. "He...ah, he got married today."

His mother and father looked absolutely crestfallen, and Mycroft had a smug look on his face that Sherlock knew the reason for.

"Yes, yes. Love is a disadvantage and all that." He snapped at his brother, who merely raised an eyebrow.

"Not at all, brother mine." Mycroft replied smoothly. "It can be very advantageous, at times."

"Yes, well, other times it’s not." Sherlock sniffed. "Now, this has been marvellously fun, but I've got cases to solve."

"My little boy, a detective." Mummy said, wiping at her eyes.

"A consulting detective." Sherlock replied as he began to walk away. "The only one in the world."

He weaved his way through the crowds, surfacing unscathed on the other side. 

As he began walking away from the crowd, a piece of cloth was flung over his eyes, completely blinding him. He let out a startled yelp, which was cut off as a hand covered his mouth, pulling him into what Sherlock assumed was an alley. He struggled against his captor, reaching out to push against their solid body. He deduced that kidnapper was approximately six inches shorter than him, though a good deal stronger. 

His wrists were bound in handcuffs almost instantly, and Sherlock grabbed at them, surprised by their texture. They were unbelievably soft and fluffy.

"This isn't one of my brother's agents, is it?" It wasn't a question, not really, but he felt so foolish for hoping.

"God, no." Replied the painfully familiar of John. "You would have expected a kidnapping from them."

"This is a kidnapping?" Sherlock asked, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry. "Why are you kidnapping me when you should be going on your sex holiday?"

"Sex holiday?" John asked, his voice sounding blank.

"Honeymoon?"

"Oh! Yeah, no, I called off the wedding a few weeks ago."

They came to a halt, and Sherlock struggled to get the makeshift blindfold off. He needed to see John, needed to get a read on him. Gentle hands lifted the cloth off his face, and suddenly John was in front of him, smiling warmly.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, feeling lost.

"Why what?"

"Why did you call off your wedding?" 

John was silent for a moment, and Sherlock felt as though he were going to explode. Perhaps it was just a short term thing, and he and Mary would get back together soon. Perhaps it was Mary who cut it off, leaving John hurting, or maybe-

“I didn’t think it was fair to marry her when I was in love with someone else.”

Everything seemed to slow around them, and Sherlock couldn’t look away if he wanted to. John’s smile was too tender, too warm, too everything.

“In love with someone else?” Sherlock repeated.

“And here I thought you were a genius.” John teased, though a flicker of worry crossed over his face. “I fell in love with _you_.”

“Me.” Sherlock repeated once again, feeling rather idiotic. “I kidnapped you.”

“Yes, and you stole my heart along with it.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from lunging forward to press a kiss to John’s lips. Overall, it was rather awkward, and quite unpractised, but the bright smile on John’s face when he pulled back let him know that he did it correctly.

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock said, leaning his forehead against John’s, sharing his air. “I missed you these past couple of months.”

“But you’ve been busy.” John replied. “Solving murders, saving lives. God, but it’s impressive. I just lost my job at the A&E.”

“You know, I’m in need of an assistant. A doctor, preferably one that has battle experience.” Sherlock said, watching John carefully. “He has to have nerves of steel, patience, and he needs to love danger. Do you think that would be right up your alley?”

“Are you offering me a job?” John asked, clearly amused. “I didn’t think you could date someone you worked with.”

“I’m self-employed,” Sherlock shrugged. “I make my own rules. So, do you want the job or not?”

“Oh god, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that's left is the epilogue! Hopefully I'll have it published on Christmas.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later...

**December 25 th. Holmes’ family estate, Yorkshire.**

 

_One year later..._

 

John ran his hand through Sherlock's dark curls as they lounged in the sitting room after Christmas dinner. Sherlock looked content, his head resting in John's lap, eyes closed as if asleep. 

"You're thinking loudly again," Sherlock's voice broke through John's thoughts. It wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact. "What's on your mind?"

"Oh, just comparing this Christmas to last." John chuckled.

"I would say it went a lot better, wouldn't you?" Sherlock's eyes opened, and he grinned up at him.

"Oh yes. No police bursting through our door."

"Well, we already have an invader."

"Greg isn't an invader, you berk. He's Mycroft's guest." John laughed fondly.

"Just because Mycroft invited him, doesn't mean he isn't spying on us," Sherlock reasoned. "In fact, I would argue that it was more likely."

"You're ridiculous." John curled his fingers around one of Sherlock's many ringlets, enjoying the smoothness.

"Now, what were you  _really_  thinking about?" Sherlock asked, and John bit back a grin. He knew that it was impossible to keep secrets from Sherlock.

"I was thinking about your Christmas present."

"The chemistry set?" Sherlock asked, his eyes unfocused as he thought to earlier that afternoon. John had splurged on an expensive chemistry set that Sherlock had been eyeing for months. Sherlock had gifted John with the most handsome watch he had ever seen. On the back, Sherlock had paid for a special engraving.

 

_You stole my heart_

 

John smiled at the watch, now secured firmly on his wrist. "I got you another present."

"Another present?" Sherlock repeated slowly, frowning up at him. “What do you mean, you got me another present?”

John shifted, digging for the gift in his back pocket, his heart racing with nerves. God, but he wasn’t sure how this gift would be received. Sherlock had failed to deduce it, something that John was initially proud of, but his subconscious nagged at him, making him think it was because maybe Sherlock didn’t _want_ to deduce it.

He found the box, pulling it out slowly as he mulled over his words, the velvet feeling soft in his tight grip.

“You mean the world to me,” John said, fiddling with the box that he was keeping just out of Sherlock’s sight. “You have, since the moment you kidnapped me from that bloody coffee shop.”

“John.”

“What I’m trying to say is…well…Sherlock, will you marry me?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he sat up so he could look at John better. John tried not to fidget under his scrutiny, the closed ring box still tight in his grip.

“You want to marry me.” It was a statement of surprise, not a question.  

“You’re the most amazing man I have ever met, and I am head over heels in love with you,” John smiled. “Of course I want to marry you.”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” Sherlock blurted out. “And sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”

“I know all that,” John laughed, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because potential husbands ought to know the worst about each other,” Sherlock snatched the box out of John’s hands rather unceremoniously, opening it up with a smile. A simple platinum band shone from the black velvet lining.

“I figured I would buy the wedding band early in lieu of an engagement ring.” John ran a hand through his hair. “If it’s not enough, I can go buy a n-mph!”

John was cut off instantly by Sherlock’s lips against his, letting him know just how perfect the ring was. They sat on the sofa together, enjoying each other’s company. Later on, Violet Holmes would come in and shriek at the sight of the ring box. Later on, John would get pats on the back from Greg and Siger. Later on there would be wedding planning, and quite kisses by the fireplace, but for now, it was just the two of them against the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished! I am so excited that I was able to share this story with you. I got the idea a few days before Christmas last year, and my entire year has been spent writing this story. I am so blessed by the wonderful people that have reviewed and given kudos and the whole works. You all make my heart sing, I swear. I hope you have a merry Christmas, and that you enjoy this last little gift from me.
> 
> Always yours,  
> Robottko

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://robottko.tumblr.com/) if you like Christmas trees, ARE a Christmas tree, or enjoy wrapping yourself in tinsel. Ignore if you hate kittens.


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